There is a pattern
in the sky of dark,
in the starry, starry
night. Hunters and lions
swing amid cumulus,
weaving circles into lies.
The old boys are at it,
those highway blues again,
I’m singing, singing, singing,
those highway blues again.
These men who live in bubbles
like an unbrewed cup of tea –
they whack the wings of buntings,
so steeped in misogyny – they are
the migraine that knocks you
down upon your knees.
That flick of a knife
slicing through your eye –
you know you are a slave
to an eternity of pain,
grabbing at your being,
rendering you slain.
The content of their character
is as holey as swiss cheese,
if you bite into it
you might spit the air
between your teeth,
giving way to an emptiness
running deep, running deep.
The world cannot be whole,
the moon is never complete,
when the sisters lie forgotten
weep, humanity, weep.
Anne's mediocre poetry 
Such a great piece, with motion, movement, sound and every touch.
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