Organized by Artist
A World Which CouldFlaming flowers on wind topped hills,A World Which Could in Scraps
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Flying their flags on three windmills,
Piled high in endless corridors,
Letter boxes in the blue wood doors.
Gash of blood lying in the blank canvas,
The wound running thick red lines,
The evidence that swarms and clusters,
Let them out onto the virgin snow.
The breaking voice of a willow's boughs,
The brittle cacophony of writhing leaves,
Hear the roots as they sigh,
Weeping their final encore.
Wistful stones skim that ice,
Playing that sound like some device,
Contracted from that dying sun,
Seams that lie, picked undone.
Shattered vases hold crisp daffodils,
Sitting dejected on aching windowsills,
Watching silently the wind go by,
Listening to the clarinettist play.
Synthesised actions etched into the sand,
A world misguided, misunderstood,
Tangled rope tied around the rivers,
A world chartered, a world which could.