Alone Poem by Ian Keenan

There are many of us,
Each in a cage,
Clutching on a single thread,
Snatching at the
Circling hour,
Spun without direction.

You do not know how the
Thought can be blood
In one,
Bleached in two,
And in three be
Dust and puffed away
In a dreadful doubt,
Flattening the world,
With a slapping fear
In a taut and stuck-dry
Brain.

The sparrows flit and
Bare their backs
To a fruitless sun,
And fall from roof to road,
Kicking into death
A frightful pose.