habit, hope, illuminations

A river to forget and another to remember

Here again every evening, like a ritual
I hear this ruckus of seagulls,
so far inland and no signs of rain.
I search for the meaning of this anomaly –
I’ve heard this primal dance predicts
some kind of mishap – a storm, perhaps
the ground suddenly moving underneath.
Equally violent and buoyant are
the games we play with our watches.
Trying to find in mythos an escape
and a healing, even though we know
Lethe only flows in the caves of Hades.
Yet we return again and again flying
to the planes of forgetfulness
looking for subsistence in leavings.

fiction, habit


Its one of those nights, when the night leaves you
alone amidst strangers, friends, lovers and elves, the fireplace is teeming with
ashes of unvisited islands and unlived mornings
and despite the heat from the fire, there is no warmth in the air
the mirrors behind the eyes reflect an empty room and a passing shadow
of a familiar weave and pattern
the fragrance is oddly familiar and so is the humidity
the untouched cutlery, sheets, the windblown candle and
the sleep that comes out of the need to escape.


The lonely ones

The truth is, we always find a way to look beyond history
even if the details are blurred and bokeh-ed

The truth is no one waits for you and you don’t wait for them
despite what a certain winter-girl in the children’s books may tell you

Is it not right that after a point no one really matters?
that beyond a certain threshold of tolerance the doors lock down?

The truth is there aren’t enough people that respect the solitary
and the truth shall always remain that the solitary are outsiders

In a world full of nods of agreement and polite smiles,
of what is acceptable and what is right-

The solitary shall always be called the lonely ones.

(there is no other way in sight)



And you wait for the footsteps
in your tiny hopeful heart
they are always drawing closer
getting louder

And you stand by the door, then at the balconey
looking down at howling dogs,
they love these insolent nights,
you squint until you see
the feet and the knees and the chest and the heart.

And they turn a corner to what you assume is only a five minute flight home
they never turn up, their bodies do,
their souls sit in corners of those cursed nights
too scared to bring light

too scared of happiness.

too scared of life.