Prose Poetry

I Forget Where We Are

I thought you were still seventeen and half, like the one I knew in yester years. I remember you guys never threw that half; I kept it still too, my share of the half.

A form of gimmick merry-go-round it was, always fun but not funny times.
Ben Howard is to refresh my memory, on what happened before I sought an asylum with my pack into the woods.
A place not too familiar, but far from busy; a place where cricket cries and other climber-creepers creeps, cacklings and owl hoots, birds chirping and singing; a place with a new morphologically structured steep variation, from up the hill (slow down first).

A place where the soil is covered, and sand heaps like an ant hill, with granite scattered as pebbles. A place with empty windows for hide and seek—with the roof top, roof top high.

Do not walk on the cultivated land it’s time for cultivation. Where ants’ match triumphantly like the conquerors of the habitat, and like the song ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ sung by teamed children on filed lines.

A friend’s peep, is a get together. One thick bubble’s refusal to splash, a place where delicate delicacies grows not far. Places where foot paths pave the way for footsteps, like ghost marching through for a ghost hunt.

A neighbour’s stare is like a telescope, and hard work is the motto, collaborationism as a watch word, and brief brawls with mugged progress.

A whole new world of awkward serenity, that washes past glimpses and rewrites the future on a blurry and mundane page.


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