Bones

Music's memory holds me strong,

A cutting current owns my bones.

Like a hoarder of aged bodies,

Giving up his dead to dignity-less exposure.

Unnerving flash of white,

A blunt sword buried within all

Gives itself up with decomposure.

I didn't know you were inside me.

Disovled of myself those empty sticks,

Are all that I've left.

Ippon, nihon, sanbon.

Memories I didn't know I had,

Bind me to you.

Through old man's eyes I see,

My death reflecting,

Our second youth.

That we can never go back is clear,

So let's go on 'cause the future's all we've got.  

Packing Boxes

Emboldened like worker ants we move,
Storing away brown box after borrowed box after broken box. 
'No, wait. Not enough tape. This is storage, not removal. 
We might need to ship it out or bring it back.' 
Back to here or back to there?
Where, now, will be home?
Empty out the saucepan, cheese grater and measuring jug.
I see a rethink coming on.
We're paused in our black armoured convoy of practicality.
Someone asks me: 'could you not just buy some over there?' 
But we might come back.
I might come back.
The convoy shifts, lets go its defences.
We all know that in this moment,
These boxes aren't coming back.