Poetry by David McLean

we fall and are here

we fall from heavens
to this flat stone we live on

here we build hells from bricks
and nothing

just another emptiness
to cocoon us in

the sun is a waiting finger
tapping the rapt window

i heard. it illumines a waiting
world that is absurd

and does not care.
but at least it's there

at least it's almost real
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