Number 41 Poem by Oisin Vink

Number 41

Rating: 4.0


And so it has begun again.
A vague touch
Or a cold rapture down my spine,
Drawing itself in through the glass.

Many times I have walked upon this floor,
Dancing in the dark,
That hollow sound
When the pieces fall -
Pitter, patter upon the ground.

Oh how it assonates,
Weaving in and out of itself,
Tearing through painted fingertips
And fractured dreams
Of something in a room long passed.

A smile,
A glance,
A wayward sparrow,
Another cliché -
That drags itself along the wall,
If only to make itself feel real.

I am the number 41,
Count me carefully,
As I am hardly random.
Pay heed to the point in my right angle,
As I am hardly obtuse.

I shall rise up upon the scale again,
Waving my little wand,
Filled with dreams and knives –
Perfect and acute.
Watch me carefully,
Trawling through the air.

Soon there is a tapping,
A small tap,
Upon the crown of your head,
Of a moral or ideal
Which is long since dead.

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