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In the land of the forgotten nothing is ever.

Half-knitted scarves lie forlornly upon limbless mannequins,
Hoping for a pearl of interest as the fibres within their make up
Creep away from both each other, and their dim-dummy buddies,
Reaching for that day of glorious independence which will,
Eventually, be theirs. All theirs I tell you.

Good intentions wag their tails furiously,
Drooling sincere empty promises,
Whilst eagerly elbowing each other in the ribs,
Vying for attention as they race on a looped pavement.
A fast track to nowhere.

An almost-penned apology sprawls petulantly,
Resupine in a contrite cocoon,
Soon to burst forth, reborn in an eye-popping display –
Soaring wings of absolute apathy.

A forsaken lover’s heart seizes in the breeze,
Rocking gently back and forth on a three-legged park bench.
The world jogs past, over the bridge into the horizon.
Its head clad in snug headphones.
Obvious oblivious oblivion.

A maladroit raft fashioned from incomplete stories and wishful novels
Floats down the river of impotent potential;
They all have success written on the tips of their tongues,
But tears in their half-formed, anti-climactic eyes.

Censored edits roll their celluloid hips and eyes seductively,
But there’s no-one there to shock with their lascivious lunges,
And salacious sauce-filled snippets.
The thrust of the beat goes on,
Long after the song has faded to dust.

Two unfinished symphonies fret upon their frets.
All a tremolo, they hang-tight for a finale
That will grant them the rapturous applause,
That only a climax by crescendo can provide.

An ancient library sits in silence – empty, waiting, panting.
Starved of readers and dying, it ever-so slowly exhales
A haemorrhage of black, gummous, Quink-soaked atoms.
An unpardonable vanishing trick played on history.

In the land of the forgotten nothing is ever.