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After you died,
I filled your clothes with air
and took you walking.
Inflated, you were new-born, elated:
a dashing, headless dandy,
all grand gesture:
a sweep of shirt sleeve and trouser leg.
My mouth had so much to say,
it ran ahead,
waiting for us before each bend,
tongue wagging, an eager dog.
It was on Waterloo Bridge that we met
the rush-hour automatons head-on.
I should have let go in the crush
but, headstrong, I clung on
through hit after hit,
until you were deflated:
a puddle of clothing,
a melted snowman.
Next time, we’ll go at night,
fly kites on the Heath,
consider the weightlessness
of space, the endless sky,
the aching in my chest.
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This peom is about a woman in my life, who is suppose to be there for me but is not.
Dreams, desires, id and ego.
This poem is about our failure to feel fulfilled by our constant consumption of life.
Read it and find out.