Encased within, several
intersecting lines of tension

limit me

to an arc of movement
emotionally ballpointed;
scraping at the paper while


reaching out

across the surfaces of times
I would rather rejoice, but
stab forcefully folds together

one crumpled ball of defeat.

Edging towards the flower.

A taste so violently sweet
of pen and of ink, of purpose
reworked and worthy of notice.

Of intention to chase
reward for the sake of reward

in that new face, I throw
the forgotten lines
of chances


by Gareth Rosser