Strings

Tears have been shed,
It’s too late now,
You cannot bring back the salty warmth,
The truth.

Locked away in the confines of your mind,
There is the version of the truth that you liked best,
The one with the least potential to injure.

The old world is coming
A few years staggered, to meet the new world,
younger, more life
than it remembers.
The language has changed,
The old cannot understand the nuances of the new.

They grow themselves, like cobwebs;
Strings, attaching secretly
Into the old world haven,
isolated, oblivious,
Entered like chillies grown from seeds sent
over hill, plain and river.
A foreign plant, invasive.
Always in flower,
Always fruit, biting.
Biting them will burn, but honey
will cool your tongue,
a sweet forgetfulness.