this poem is best suited to be an independent film about lost perspective

this poem is best suited to be an independent film about lost perspective

a whirring of processes 
in a meshed clock-less world 
anchor shadows, a whorl 
of wind hooks, dust 
and movie lights waiting 

quiet on the set 
ear-less black yet 
a nose full of you 
scent went intending 
never one to be ending 
what back stories do

slurry bin for recesses 
hungry endless mores 
poured more please Tories 
pining old ways 
tickets were bought and sold 

I too, can be lent 
poem says, and sent 
some thirsty bones and flesh...
and yes, soul does searching 
heart wholly holed, perching 
a front row seat in nets 


EJR ©