Poetry: Thoughts at 30 by David Dumouriez

Thoughts at 30

Mine is not the sun,
nor more the scent
of just-cut grass, and
not the air that
carries it along.
The colours are not mine:
the blues and greens
that frame our lives;
the mix that we interpret
through the day; the shades
the careful see. 
I cannot claim the wind, 
nor think that it 
pursues me singly.
The rain I hear or feel’s 
just liquid drops - there
to fall, to stop, 
to come again. 
The night I’ve trod and loved,
companion to a thousand 
schemes and scrapes, 
exists insensible for all. 
The cities that I’ve swelled 
subsume my shape.
The structures stay and thrive; 
the dwellers die. 
The words that feel my warmth
with coldness flow, indifferent
to the best and worst attempts.
What’s left is all there is. 
All and all.
Enough to halt connection, 
temper verve?


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