A note to the reader: this is not a poem

The pictures are falling from my walls
Because the paint is too heavy.
Illlusionary landscapes are real landscapes now.

No need for tonality or warmth of colour.
Now I write another poem that nobody will read.
There is loneliness in these words

I tell you the supposed reader in plain terms.
There is no need to hide behind poetry.
I won’t try to be clever with you.

— Helen Ivory, author of Waiting for Bluebeard

T. S. Poetry

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