So he sang, Don’t Look Back,

but he turned to see


other lives

through his walls. He died


trying to hide. He sang

the line, ‘Murmurs baptise…’


He left a note

and it remains unread


inside my winter blazer, for another time,

when his tears cease to blind.


He downed vodka and pills,

a whole bottle of each,


fantasies like flowers,

and he always just wore one.


unnamed (1)

Tom Bland is a writer and an accidental performance artist. He studied psychotherapy and dream analysis at SOPH and edits the online magazine, Blue of Noon,


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