Creative Poetry: Amy Ward Sep 19


Repeat. Repeat. Formed.


lost in rhythm and

vibration, the mind

releases for new

meaning found within

Repeat. Repeat. Formed.


Mother, tongue. My first


first of the knowing.

Interactive noise,

we share agency.

ET takes me home

although classically

high fives and sharp thirds;

point into the night

see the birds fly formed

by a “V” we cry

“home,” we have no home

tonic abandoned.

A mysterious

illusion, we point

knowing the centre

but doubting it’s there

holding on to hope

to find itself, to

approximate the

equation of pi

On our way to somewhere.

Repeat. Form.

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