A poem by Algo Gourley

Son dies,
Moons rise
First, At the swipe of a screen
Then, or now, at the speed of thought.
In bright orange packaging,
A few shots left.
There’s a shortage at the corner store.
Controlling tides,
Like you used to control moods.
All atomic,
Like the chair you are not sitting on.
Reflecting on a life, that you never really had.


Algo Gourley is 40 and from Ireland.In self imposed self isolation. Algo only wears black and enjoys studying the School of Austrian economics, reading comic books and meditating. Believes organized religion is a club but is not nihilistic.

Photo by Halacious

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