The Shape of Creation

The shape of creation

was not made for you.


It is from the silent mouth in white,

curt and passive, barely parting

with unknowable anger,

that blows the easterly wind.


Eyes of soft fluorescence

glow with strange love

as the streetlights that flood and fill

the walls of night.


My reality cannot understand

the contours and spirals of your own.


The bridge of your body,

that land of space above

where you sit and divide

your kingdom.


Under you

black fathoms of writhing seas,

drown and drain

my old geographies,

my pathetic memories

into the unreal.


Others cannot see

they drift behind muted glass, passing

through screens of the white sun.


I am a curiosity.

Every fissure of my vision

ripped apart in your revelation.

I am still following

a path that is broken.


Tim Lutton is a young English graduate living in London who enjoys the arts, photography, music and cats, trying to make sense of anxiety and imagining a better world. He has never been published. He can be found on Instagram @mr.timnus and Twitter @amanoutoftim.