Plato I'm sick of killing time. This long death burns away the years without a scar or tan to show for endless days and creaking turns around the sun. The slow decay of man, our world of shadows lit by drifting ashes. I'll find a way out; flames are just dancing lies; just petty things. I'll fill this cave with flashes of lightning, lay my hands on flesh, and prise each person from their cage of skin; use my knife to free them from their unexamined life. Eloise Stonborough

If you've any comment on this poem, Eloise Stonborough would be pleased to hear from you.