Stopping short

Stopping short


A really short poem who’s lead up cascades, rises, ranges to chaotic exchanges, paraphrases the angelic faces of teenage lace in the empty spaces of every religious case. Each obsurd harsh word from man to bird, who’s crescendo aches with time complaints of chip shops with no fish and dried up paint, but doesn’t wait for finality and stops without frivality.

© G.P Williamson 2017




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