Acceleration’s what is needed now;
so cells can reach the tunnel’s end in time.
While standing on a worn and broken bough
all hope dissolved of finding dreams which rhyme.
Thus, noticeably washed up in disguise
the unshelled crab wept salt tears made of sea.
The only home he’d known streamed from his eyes;
his pulsing heart stopped imperceptibly.
If only you could glimpse what he had seen:
that nothing’s what it seems or where it dwells.
The lie which speaks to fools of evergreen
is anaesthetic for our fare-thee-wells.
(Waiting around to die is all we do.
The only part which changes is the view).
© Alan Morrison, 2014