Diego

Nathan Rodney Jones

Apr 17

1 min read

By Nathan Rodney-Jones

four walls are four walls

are slipping out of colour

we are all cardboard

blurring our running lines

the thinker does not think

they are thinking

all the porthole paraphernalia

you could line this purgatory

with each elephant's grey back

ocean blue herons flying sunrises

and fag-ends you sit in

it is the last time

these walls knew these walls

knew you for a while

you climb the bed - rest

your weary eyes out to dry

will stand and be lost in the street -

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