rising to meet the day, floating off my sur-
faces and skin, like the things I’m not allowed
to say. I know I’m not real, my edges blur
or fold back like pages being turned.
Some days we dream that thoughts will
be clearer. Some nights we learn
what to think as the dawn draws nearer. Still
I see the clouds, with everything left to say
But you can’t swipe past a slate sky,
or those streets washed out with grey.
What’s left? The hard reset of a late night
with no new notifications,
no undiscovered constellations
NB: The poem is a response to Tony Curran’s 3D drawing (best viewed in Google Cardboard):
Here's the poem in song version (Meredith Adams: Voice, music by Lachlan Brown)