From the future

A sadness from future
becomes a knot around my neck.
A poisonous clot of knowledge,
it decorates me.
I look around the room
and names fall off
the register that is kept.
Books turn cold
for the lack of warm hands.
No longer will they bury the noses
and twist the glasses askew
in their last attempt
to change a perspective. 
Oil stains on the keyboard
will not be kept up.
Hurried calls will not be made
to share something minute and monumental.
Cracks too will disappear from the story.
Walls knowing no inhabitant
will crookedly laugh.
A place goes cold.
It spreads out into darkness.

Inner breeze

I have gravity in me.
It pulls everything towards
a lurking unknown centre.
Happenings and stillness
flutter the inside breeze.
There, in tracts of nowhere
I exist.
Yes, it is just me.
Self looking at self.
In a mirror, so polished
reality and image
merge into ambiguity.