And in the glare of spotlights
in this small lair a tired mind
unravels, travels far from here
to where they are
where the sunshine is proved 
and the arm is freely placed
around the body in a 
felt embrace of love.

But in this dearth, this dark
Saturday of stillbirth and
the untamed heart, all pains
are too alive and unsubdued, the lights impart
some heat to the seated silent
reader here below.

The unravelling of thought and hope
is a slow business, but inexorable
and the pile of thoughts that
seep the floor do not flower
any more - no light and heat
can make them grow
they weep in a lost and slow lament
for people loved and gone
for what is left and what is spent
for what was left undone
for the present breath that must inspire
her courage to take shape and grow
to rise above expiry date - the fallow
shelf-life of the heart must be
tidied, dusted, kicked and started
pumping with its living arms 
that hold her weight with ease;
where all is logged, empowered
and charmed back to life;
where the hand moves
thoughts into place
like chesspieces on a board.
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