I once got lost in an entomology museum somewhere in the heart of Paris, France.
Fascinated by the fastidious passion of those who'd captured butterflies, moths and beetles, to painstakingly immortalise their beautifully intricate abdomen's and thorax's between pins and boards, all for a slew of compound eyes to meet theirs.
I'd like to think that I can in some small way relate through a somewhat similar craft, of carefully placing word beside word, line beneath line, morphing stanza from stanza like some fussy curator arranging insects into neat little rows of succinct individual stories.
These poems have become a sort of diary on life, and yet with each passing thought captured into this lyric form, I have a sense that through these meagre collection of words, I am being made new.
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Poetry