They’re lined up in rows
but still uneven
It offends the eyes, the mind, the soul
The tip of the iceberg…
Brown and red – maybe yellow,
you’d be a fool to argue,
let the chain of thought slide down
the flaky guttering
into the bowels of the-
dug-out,
hollowed-out,
empty chimney

It’s a vessel, only a container
for part of that which is dead
and free
Still, the angles left
on the hollow shell are irregular
and it torments, even blisters
a life fragmented

Don’t even try to understand
what has already been
and passed,
emitted into the ether
like a puff of smoke.

– Leilanie Stewart