A winter fire,
a trapped rage,
a matchbox with abundance,
a megaphone in a jail,
a burn in string,
a kite,
a song,
a rustle of old kind
and I have failed like wind fails to find the forest.
The dying star fades in a bar of desert highway,
the burden of a lie between a dusk and a dwan,
There’s no escape from the sacrifices that art takes in return of distance.
A fire
that is caused in invisibility,
so much of rain that drops in my shirt
and somewhere in a shore of barren sky; a libido of sullen conclusion takes my breath away.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Will Nicholls.