Things are breaking

Things are breaking apart over us.

Things are breaking in my shoes.

The traffic lights

and the office men

and your words at breakfast

break apart in the

ridges and crags of my day.

Its the sky that’s bursting from me,

angry, full of coagulated wind

and ready to shake things up.

For the longest time

I’d shuttered it away

behind dank curtains

where it raged and

clapped at the cataracts

of my spleen,

at the audacity of it’s host.

And now the baying clouds

storm from me and send out

locust swarms of love

to feast upon

the works, the fields,

the nights that I’ve tilled

into a life.

And the sky from out of my mouth

dredges up the desolate road

along which

I must make my new way,

A beggar after my own heart.


Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014


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