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.