On Detachment

a poem by Richard Gildea, UK - poetry writer, author, poet

Debris is strewn betwixt the human form
No contour lines as known, defined by eye
An image burned, some say outside the norm
Of what mankind perceives or can rely
A fleeting thought may cross one’s mind (unreal)
Where sights preclude emotional response
Here taste and smell wouldst make a body reel
Tho' absence doth embrace with nonchalance
To be immersed yet stand alone required
For man within to somehow seem without
Synaptic fibres hath perchance rewired
Enabled by trained action; (there's no doubt)
Held memories may wither on the vine
Lest He recalls and helps to reassign

Richard

His Last Words
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Westwood Oh!
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