4 Hour Delay

All the stripes contain a story;
Lines on the pages of tigers’ coats,
Their stories soaking through their chests
To spill across their arms, their necks.
Incoherent scratchings, hard to read –
Who’s to say what brutish rants,
What love-soaked sonnets are written?

In this enormous gallery,
Amongst the hideous artifacts,
Some stage their exhibitions:
Hello and goodbye hung in letters of
Love, Joy, Sorrow, Disdain.

All these books fly in the breezes
And gusts of the hours;
Never to be read, stories uncomprehended;
Just the stripes on their pages
Blowing fast, fluttering past.


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