I see my weakness, most unseemly
the emptiness between four walls, and
my culpability. Have mercy on me,
humble door, where humanity
has passed like smoke. Hello, yellow bird.
I raise my face to the sky. It seems it is
singing to me. My days will change. I’ve lost
my regrets and complicated desires.
There’s a hole here. Who am I? There’s
little left except a grown man in a dark
suit crying in public. The idea of death.
I don’t know what these people think. Come on,
I’m not afraid, but I would like something
to come to me from the infinite
where I can multiply. I have no mission
left to fulfil. One by one the mouths will close.
Ian Seed
Picture Rupert Loydell