by Aidan Chivers

The cracked pots of consonants lie strewn across the ground,

And quiver with the rattle of feeble cliché –

Whimpering, they give out a creaky, plaintive sound

Battered by tiny tongues forcing their decay.

Colourless vowels fade, hollowed out through overuse:

An impotent oblivion of musty, mouldy scents.

Antique tapestries unravel; dusty threads run loose –

A sickly, pallid shadow of the artist’s intents.

Syllables, torn up, litter busy workshop counters,

Reworked with feverish fingers by the Symbolist tailor

Who re-stitches, and tires; re-sews, and flounders:

He weaves his worthless patchwork of artful failure.