It’s a proud little poison
that our flight be pre-ordained:
a concertina calling.
We like the music, but these
clock faces spin wrong.
Thyme would be better here;
hear, hear the ratcheted riots,
sprung like your eager lips
as lies slink from the water.
It’s not wrong, yet we’re not
yet wrung, and I feel the pull
of tripping, crippling tears.
Cara Pleym
Temprian
About the Author
Cara Pleym is a poet and writer from the West Coast of Scotland. Recently published in independent presses such as Black Coffee Review, Querencia Press, and Dark Thirty Poetry Publishing, her work ranges from the traumatic to musings on the mundane and all the oddities of being human.