D.I.D. – a poem



I don’t feel real, substance wayward,

The minor turned major on a coin edge,

Thus landed rather than heads, tails,

Chance and probability, just words,

Terms and tones not always understood.


This meaning of mind moves torpid,

Languishing along lines where touching

Happens across a distance, black panes

Thicker than void separate this sense

Of self from the wider world, disparate.


Detachment, realisation rallied behind

Masks and walls, barriers, normalcy

An act, rehearsing words, phrases, far

From what might occur within, a story

Told for a solipsistic idea of self.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s