In all ways, always, the only constant remains loss.
Blessed, they say, are those who believe without having seen. If that is true, surely, no one blessed lives in Cape Town.
Reality is a bone-biting bastard
a teeth-clenching contention
a bearing of all in bruxism
Truth is a fickle belief
as callidly cold as any grief
as trustworthy only as drunken relief
Cynicism is home to clairvoyance
found dismally too late after the fact
when revisiting words of earlier annoyance
I have been told: at times of chaos
rest, reduce, reorganize, take a breath, make a list
but you’ve set your sails for going away: that’s the gist.
17 September 2017