The shadows sink more slowly
Than ever they did before
The dawn, it no longer gloriously rises
Rather it stumbles across the new morning
The figures, which once danced on the wall
Now stand statuesque, still as stone
The lampshade, which once cast its own likeness
Is now entirely within itself, muted
The long road to the river is monotone
As is the pony’s meadow, and the wilder moor
The dance floor, which once throbbed with urgency
Is well beyond the last waltz, emptied of all lust
The letters, once a before the morning ritual
Are no more, nor have they been for a long time
The smile, the bodily gesticulations; energetic, vibrant
Are now hidden from view, a clear avoidance of life
The dangers, once embraced without fears
Are now placed centre stage, to become restrictive
All ideas of ideas, of thoughts, and of movements
Are closed off, to dismiss the opportunities for change
The dilemma, for to be sure it is a real dilemma
Is how fine a line is the line, between love and hate
How discursive those once so so cohesive forces
How indignant now, of the need to silence the howl
