The air I breathe is
laden with introspection.
Thoughts unsaid,
words unspoken.
Lapse into reflection.
Gravity. Your eyes
swollen with struggle against
the words jammed in your
jewelled throat.
What you wish to say
can never be understood
by alien ears. Messages
for the centre.
Thoughts bounce around
in there, like pinball, like silver.
Break out.
We beg, although we don’t
know it. We’re begging
you to share your thoughts.
Nonsense has meaning.
Struggle against silence.
Murder is acceptable under
one condition; that your victim
is boredom. Murder your
boredom.
Iestyn Tudor 