A Still Frame of Relief

 

How thoughtlessly alien words such as ‘office’ 

Intrude into the quiet of a line…

 

Only the orange hue of dusk beckoning

Like the call of an evening maggie

 

‘Come out, out, out, out’

Washes the day away creating words

 

Jostling for their place in the natural order

Of the life meant to be.

 

Weasel-speak and gobbledygook are disposed of

In non-recyclable waste

 

The night, a still frame of relief.

 

 

Copyrighted by the author

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