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Nobody really reads


And I sit here with my pen

And page

Quartz-white and aching

With the longing to be heard

With the longing for the scratches

Of life and love and pain

To leave their trail 

Like the snails who emerge

To the freshness of the rain

With a purpose and a will

On the fences and the leaves

On the skin of another.

Nobody really reads 


Eyes scan screens and pages


As if expecting something more

To leap out from the words

To seep from the page

And settle beneath the skin 

Like a message or a meaning 

Or something better to take

The time away

A quiet infection of purpose

Or entertainment or something 

Something other than this.

Nobody really reads 


As a colourless wash paints over

It’s grey

Face recycled with the same words

That we heard before

That we heard tomorrow 

With no more meaning than the clouds

Which spin and scuttle

Like frightened crabs across the sky

Across the beach

To the sea that swallows them whole

As the language slowly dies

Behind our eyes.

Nobody really reads