Things, being things, are ever complex,
nothing so simple as true.
Our lives are like Ypres,
all wire and craters,
the ever defended self.
with forgettable passwords,
ever commanding, forever shifting.
Deceptive matrices of gloom,
where anxiety reigns
over pixelated doubts.
The neighbours arguing,
The light was left on at the front.
Well, someone must pay,
this is serious (of course)
and irresponsible to the trees.
The choreography of life,
cat’s in the cradle gone wrong,
the twine’s all over the place.
Yet in the eye of this storm
we’re calm brevity,
as love is spoken without words.