Will Vigar

a writer of sorts

The Wrong Forest

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Mean aluminium trees –

plastic vines

circulating analgesic sap –

fail to sway in the bare

thoracic snap from tired,

syncopating lungs.

 

Phoney canopy

on geometric bough.

Silent, motionless

except under instruction  

from triclosan shielded

hands, lost in the wrong

 

forest, avoiding

the gaze of sanguine

eyes, their data leaves

gathered, sussurating,

mumbling unwelcome truths.

Quailing from the regular chirp

 

of digital birds, more threatening

as their excitement mounts,  

deafened but fearing their absence

from the next dawn chorus.

 

Note: Written as catharsis and in memory of my friend Pete who died in 1989 from HIV.  The last conversation we had was about how much he wanted to be able to walk through a forest again. He knew it wasn’t going to happen and as he drifted way, the juxtaposition of his wishes and the harsh metal and plastic landscape he was in seemed ironic, tragic and cruel. Still miss the mad old fucker.

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This entry was posted on January 8, 2019 by in Poem, poem of the day, Poetry, Will Vigar and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .
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