Ant Smith

Poetry

Somebody else's problem

What the eye can't see the heart can't grieve?

Don't talk to me about falling trees

Dry rot and wood lice fill my home

Corruption reaps all that has been sown

What the man can't hear cannot deceive?

Yet echoes rebound in perpetuity

Lies infiltrate even dreams

I hear them whisper in The Scream

What the tongue can't speak cannot be believed?

Yet thought is squandered by cheap speak

If you want to recognise the truth

Take a look upon the sole of your boot

What the hand can't touch cannot be conceived?

And yet all life's pains are inside me

The mighty questions can descend

To a single thing touched, heard, spoken or read

I feel it in my fingers

Some gossamer thread

Everything's connected

Inside my head

Poetry