Counting the dandelion seeds is futile

as is watching the tadpole
waddle in endless circles
within the confines of a jam jar

when something is stolen from you
there is always someone smiling
at the high-end of the see-saw

for every severance there are ten
surgeons madly suturing

but some things aren’t fixable

our swift degradation
as we’re carried on the rolling conveyor
flakes falling away
the steady brittling
the hollowness in us
radial and dilating out
to cover the wisps of colour