I became the splintered copse
dwelling in the ruptured ground.
Chipped at by day, where glaucous
pieces and infidelity drive away
such phantasms in uneven holt.
A pretence that absence shook
across our mind, no naked form.
Nonentity, nor title, only omission.
I was not there, but alone there now,
the cracks of who, separated and
scuppered, could be more with…
But we are fragmented. Only
left between the komorebi
to filter away such daydreams.

Poem © Phen Weston, 2016.


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