BELLETRISTIC.

Your old shy self shell was
Scattered on the York stone
Paving outside my home;
Cracked and overturned,
Opened and emptied.
Picked at by things with wings,
Or awls with legs more swift,
Or simply shelved for the
Allowance of your advancement;
The exuviae of your longest day.

Inside there was hardly a trace
Of you ever having been there,
Despite the remnants left.
Torn pages and pitted words,
Fractional and awry.
Dismissed by dons with scorn,
Or preachers with arms more full,
Or cynically deserted for the
Fulfilment of your future;
The literature of your old tenure.

Your pictures were bled
Of their colour and beauty;
Infused with sepia.
Creased and scratched,
Faded and over exposed.
Pixilated by the slur of age,
Or scarred by wine more acid,
Or intentionally disfigured for the
Entertainment of your lipstick;
The aesthetic of your exit.

And what of your reborn neon self,
Disparate no more against New York store
Horizons outside my land.
Stacked and unconcerned,
Closed and complete.
Fixed up by those with tools,
Or pawns with moves less used,
Or limply allied for the
Usefulness of their loft nests;
The concubine of the world’s worst kind.