Fat Finger Chicken Zinger

Can’t type for the life of me
can’t write for the sight unseen
words carved to expose fragmented souls
make more food for hungry forum trolls.

Ten years sleepless and unreachable
stomping across moors and hacking through
concrete-and-wire jungles
hoping only for a glimpse of truth
groping for a moment in the murk
unenlightened
uninspired
and petrified
in deepest silence as the final pages recede.

The blurred spray of solar flares in my memory
patches of colour and flashes of searing reality
cascade through the void space of your non-existence
and drain away into the gurgling regurgitation stream
sinking and fading among the shattered wrecks
and whale rib mazes.

On the coldest mornings I recall us with clarity
in white gold tendrils of light
dew drops melting and running together
and curling as grasping tiny hands
stretch and search for the rising sun.

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