Hiding is hiding
First it takes away ‘the’
indefinite from your mouth.
Then it is its own skin.
Space on walls where it used to hang.
Edges of time’s slow camera flash burnt
like a castle’s kitchen bricks.
Then in cracked cards of a book binding
where words wait sadly to be seen.
And always eyes behind your portrait
that follow where you pause
alone in old armoires
sealing in night’s breath.
Light cracks an occupation
taunts a weapon in your chest.
No-one is coming.
Guy Martyn is a writer and Headteacher. Helped set up a Free School, but with all the best intentions. Has studied Literature, Drama, Psychology, Mysticism and Religious Experience and is training in Psychotherapy. Has work recently published in the Crank Magazine, Ink Drinkers Poetry and forthcoming in morphrog.