Ash on the seashore,
the image runs
through my mind, but no, that isn’t right.
More like the waves of the ocean,
Licking at the shore, or crushing down upon the floor,
And leaving it there,
my soul to bind,
Liquidity and her might,
driven like the shouts of a Colt, of horseflesh or of iron.
It wipes away all thought and
it wipes away all thought,
and it wipes away thought. Knowledge,
leaving me lobotomised and mute,
an ideal target, a media whore,
cowering behind my ragged cut hedge of protein,
dead and dying
hiding from that slate-grey suit, in my gaze
cowering, amongst the metaphors,
amongst the idiom and the simile,
collated as a corpse and cold as a crowd,
amongst the Ash on the seashore.