Pity

I want to talk to you but I am not convinced:
It is tumbling, which I fall over, pick myself up from.

Thus it is possible to unpick even the simplest lines
What is left over seems nothing of worth.
So I fall backwards, collecting the pieces
Trying to encapsulate the figure unformed.
And I want to hand this over say
'There that is what I have lost, what I giving'.

Gently, as I pick myself up, represented is a space,
That fits adamantly into anticipation that it is false.
Without truth there is sad-hope and this I leave
And pass through. I suppose I am part of this process,
Folding up time to be expectant of its return.

Some days I wish I could process form,
Some days I am happy to be without.
You pass through this with me, knowing all the while
That you must retrace, go back, and search
For what it was trusted, mimed image of sentiment.

These are words that you are reading
Which connect our time so I feel less alone.
It shouldn't be embarrassing
But out side the body of the novel there is reflection,
Resentment, conflict. But that is what I wanted to share
- It is a pity. A question also - is it a pity?