Sharper and Smaller

We get sharper

Smaller, and smother

Burned to pleasant handling

Be it gravity

Pressing our concrete bones

Or our egos

Stifled by experience

We grow leaner

As dents in the hull

Scratches and scrapes

Show the armour has use

Is the fetishised bombshell

Of the new star

Another packaging to hide

The ladder pull from

Those in power?

Give it years

Bad days, brutal conversations

And we shed the false comforts built up

And grow our little gardens

With cold, calculated water

By J.W.H. Hobbs.