In exchange for my time,
an abstraction.
An idea of what it could be at the other end,
should it come.
Each clings to another,
as a partner once would.
Walking in bone fragments through your supposed ocean,
webbed-toe-curl-crunch of certainty disbelieving.
I’ll never make it back to the path,
the past still winds me imprisoned.
Network-weaved-rigidity inescapable,
squarey-calculus-confines, killing crosses, section by section.
Seduction by seduction,
abduction construction.
An influx crux,
and callous subliminal mime.
Greg Fiddament
Illustration Nick Victor