Mad Travellers

Like so much blood spilt, on so many miles, of clattering track

These effects, like eggshells, they break and crack

Yet within them was all that I thought I knew

All my comforting thoughts, my hopes own proof

Like a box of junk buried under the stairs

All those friends and relations, thoughts and cares

Are sent spinning away, now gathering pace

The box is empty now, leaving no trace

Of the work that went in to the blind, stupid race

And so now displayed for all to view

Like old clothes, skin scarred and bruised

Drifting int he wind then lifeless and still

The broken eggshells of a weak human will

But something remains, and I can still see

A dog chasing magpies over sun soaked fields

All those stark tree branches painted white

And the smell of bonfires, and the warm blue light

And I start to wonder, though nothing seems real

Always in motion, no essence, no being

That shells mutate and new shapes are made

So the power that breaks can also produce

Old dreams like captive slaves turned loose

Memories imperfect hurry along

Slipping in new shoes, treading them down

With hopes made fragile by rough sea

And glimpses of what might almost be


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