Words and the world passing by; how it sings to me; how I clamour back.
There’s a page on the Internet
Says your stuff’ll go missing
Sharp things underfoot
Pens and tacks and pins
Favourite earrings
Special trinkets
Bills and dockets
Gone for good
But I know
That sometimes a lost item
Is simply lost
Misplaced
Forgotten
Because humans are clumsy
And easily distracted
But the honeysuckle creeping
Through the back door
The creak of a window
Which was locked before
A dusting of feathers
From a murdered dove
Smears of butter
And the cream they love
These things aren’t good
Oh no
These things aren’t good at all.