18 February 2014

One Stroke

One stroke, one ticking clock.
One silent trap of time
Watching hours, days, weeks
Minute to minute, counting, 
One ticking clock.
A passing second, marked by the same thought,
It could be real.
It could be real.
Should I run and hide? 
Let it pass and drown with time.
Magnificence stalking daylight
Taunting moonlight and its shade.
Should I run and hide?
Watch from a distance, keep from view.
Spy from a burrow, behind shaded trees.
I walked along the ridge at sundown - 
Did it see, catch my scent?
Will it follow, or merely gaze upon me
As I stand still, wary of intent...
It could be real. 
It could mean nothing. 
It could be naught but the passage of time.
One stroke, one ticking clock.
A passing second, marked by the same thought. 

A Coloured Wall

I woke. 
And sound was silent, the room
Cold with its absence. 
I spoke.
Something gutteral and incoherent.
A punctuation of fear and design. 
I saw
Blank walls shifting with shadows
Dancing motes in stray light.
But the silence competed with sensation
Of holy loss and disturbed communion.
Where was the howling, the tolling of bells?
Extravagant in their presence,
Abhorrent in their nothingness,
Like shadows, on a coloured wall. 

11 February 2014

A Thousand Lullabies

I broke my fall 
Saw the edge too late
But my grip was great,
And in naught but air,
I built a stair - 

I climbed, head reeling
From familiar feeling
Of apathy and despair, 
To an edge of reason,
Logic's season,
To know I didn't belong there.

I knew from the start
There was no heart
But knowing isn't certain.
I fell to be falling,
All the time calling
Until the final curtain.

Bare now the stage
In all its age,
For now no player lies.
And the silence keeps
As truth now weeps
For a thousand lullabies.