richard pierce

richard pierce

25 May 2018

27 - Sculptures

Sculptures.
The now world, the new world,
Assigns a commercial possibility
To each anniversary,
And not the precious metals of love
Forged in the flames of time.

The wood creaks under the passing of it.

Colours.
The world now has faded them
In the wind beneath the fluttering banners.
The material is irrelevant,
The untouchable the real language
Of staying together.
They are still bright in my eyes.

The wood has been bleached under our feet.

Images.
Our analogue prints,
Our digital legacies,
They will all be outdated
When we’re dancing in the clouds.
Our days are history as we live them,
Before we understand them.

Calendar pages torn away too late to be real time.

Breath.
I listen to your sleep every night
When my eyes won’t close.
Your breaths mark my destiny.
Without them I am too alone.
They slip through my fingers,
Those untouched hours.

Sometimes, emptiness is best.

Memories.
A life-time of markers.
We forget too many of them
In the bustle of new ones.
Here, on the sofa, our hands
Meet in the middle,
A centre of gravity
For our many worlds.

For M
R, 25/05/2018

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