you reach out a hand
to pull sky down, stars,
yes the heavens themselves
are but bread to you, so you break it,
break it all upon the ground, shake this
broken universe until it begs
for release
from the ungodly bass of your
voice; your ego polishes its own
brass to trumpet a truth that none can
fail to recognise, once they are
dead and behind you (the wild
wonderings of a world which did not
want to be owned flash brilliantly, widely
and are gone).

For you

c. Kate Gough  11/5/19

Photo by Mila Young on Unsplash

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