Amongst the ticking lines of bending metal
And beneath the rubbed out sky
I lie. Bright humming of bank-
Side benches and lost cafes
Match the uneven rhythm
Of my eyes, and theirs,
That watch my sprawling self climb.
Higher to the earth.
Hard curves and distant cries close any
Distance left and sanity gives up,
For me, its pretty reign,
As fingers guide the storm.
No glowing spots or shivered bite
Shall now so block my way.
Few words to live, few words tonight,
The sky and I shall stay.
© grace.b 2023
Strong images conjuring up many different ideas about the meaning, I especially liked the second line ‘rubbed out sky’. Sue.
Thank you very much. I actually liked the ambiguity ‘reign’ rather than ‘rain’ had in relation to images of the sky.