Remember all those cute promises
and good intentions?
And yet here we are,
standing on the edge
of a precipice once again.
Counting sleepless nights,
shed tears, and wasted efforts,
only to realise the balance
will never add up.
It’s quiet, too quiet.
Freed from the shackles
with everyday activities,
thoughts raise storms.
Fractured abstract syntax
interrupted by obscure symbols,
for immediate grasp,
yet eerily familiar.
of just needing to retrieve
that one missing piece of the puzzle
to understand the mechanics
of the Universe.
This pain, the one
right behind your eyes,
that cuts into your brain
with the force of a saw,
and slowly leaks into your temples
until it dulls your senses,
makes it hard to keep
track of life.
Over the years it
has become your shield
against words and deeds
you can’t cope with,
and a great smoke screen
to hide the bits and pieces
of life that you’d rather avoid,
a defensive measure
you’d surely miss.
Sometimes I feel them reaching
out to me, all those pieces of me,
little dust motes that settled in
the places my heart left behind.
Sometimes I hear them calling
out to me, all my sighs, prayers,
and doubts, tiny dandelion seeds
that got carried off by the wind.
Nobody knows me as well
as you do, but it is not enough,
bared to the bone is not enough,
nothing is ever enough, is it?
You always dig deeper
in search of jewels and pearls,
I share with no one else,
so you can add them to your crown.
I can feel the holes in my mind
where your curiosity extracted
parts of me, the scraps and bits
that caught your interest.
And I wonder what will happen,
when my neural pathways dry up,
no longer retrieving juicy details,
when I have nothing left to give…
‘How’s purgatory?’ he asks,
his pointed ears twitching
with curiosity, his purple eyes
fixed on a point behind my irides
in his usual, disconcerting way.
He rocks back and forth with this
strange, rhythmic movement,
a sure sign of his impatience.
‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve never
been there.’ I feel uncomfortable
talking about this. I hadn’t planned
on doing purgatory. I’m more the
kind of person.
With him, you never know if it’s
just nosiness or rather a hint of
what is to come.
‘Funny.’ He giggles, he always
thinks I’m hilarious when I’m at
my most serious. He notices my
consternation, his laughter trails
away and his little face turns serious.
‘You do know where you are, don’t you?’
That said, he pops out of existence
into whatever spatial dimension
he calls home.
I lean into the stillness
of a city asleep.
I embrace the dense cloud cover
sealing in night-time illumination’s
surreal orange light;
banned from leaping up
into infinite space,
it raises a dome of seclusion,
cheating us into thinking
we are cut off from
the rest of the world.
I hum to the feeble tune
a single siren wails
in the distance,
and walk to the timing
of redundant traffic lights,
whose warning is lost on
the few resolute pigeons
reaping the harvest that
discarded food offers.
I carefully avoid stepping
on the interchangeable truths
neon lights write on dirty tarmac,
while cheering for the tiny ice rebels
in their quest of concealing
the concrete monsters
with a white veil
of fleeting beauty.
Canvas is patient
accepting red hot anger
in violent splashes,
enduring my blues
in teary streaks,
beholding black despair
in quivering brush strokes,
always silent, always forgiving
to the emotional turmoil
until it’s all but vanished
under new layers of outbursts.
I feel like an outcast,
the only one
who hears the screeching of the brakes
and the closing of subway doors,
who smells the staleness of public transportation,
who sees them.
Their eyes glued to sacred phones,
tunnel vision for fear of missing
a chatter, tweet or post on the Net,
blocking the outside world
and any interaction with earphones.
Their faces eerily glowing in the artificial light,
blank masks captured by tiny, colourful screens,
the only apocalyptic event on this train
would be the loss of WiFi connection
or, worse even, a dead battery.
Their fingers wrapped around cups of coffee
like talons around prey,
while the other hand frantically scrolls,
uploads, reloads, downloads files,
and types messages to an invisible audience.
And as I watch the changing light patterns,
flipping back and forth between
grey landscapes and black tunnels flying by,
I am a bit disappointed that
of all the aliens who could have taken over the world,
we were invaded by a bitten into apple.
photo credit: commons.wikimedia.org
Your mood is dark today,
mirroring the gloomy November sky.
Brooding has furrowed your brow,
your angry grumbling
conjures up storm clouds.
A true descendant of Thor,
thunder echoes in your voice
and lightning flashes in your eyes.
Dark energy crackles in the air,
surrounding you like a dreadful shield.
I take a deep breath and brace myself.
Warded by a four-leaf clover
and armed with a cup of tea
I enter the cave
heading for the eye of the storm.
Of all the arguments
the ones that scare me most
are those we never had.
I feel them weighing us down,
hanging over our heads
in dark, threatening clouds.
I feel their charge in the air,
in the distance I already hear
the rumble of approaching thunder.
In vain she waited for the phoenix
to rise from the ashes
of the years you carried off.
Instead she writes her screams
into the mess you left behind.
In vain she waited for the
frantic pounding in her chest to subside
after she rinsed you out of her system.
Instead she carves her pain
into the softness of her flesh.
In vain she pretended
to be free of your mind games,
to have reclaimed a will of her own.
Instead she submits to the inferno
where suffering has no expiration date.
To trust you
is to play
a game of Jenga.
I turn around
you remove another block,
endangering the structure.
To trust you
is to play
a game of reverse Jeopardy.
I ask the correct question
the wager I lay on you is lost,
draining my resources.
To trust you
is to built
a house of cards.
I check the foundation
it has become more shaky,
ready to collapse any time.
The two glasses mist up
in the warm summer night,
single drops of water
slowly flow down fragile stems,
leaving wet rings on the table.
Our silence connects us
more strongly than words could,
for a glorious instant
there is no space between us,
nothing that needs to be bridged.
And I send a little prayer
that my mind will link
those two glasses forever
to this moment of
of pure perfection.
photo credit: Winniepix via flickr
In the gloomy space
you share with no one,
this sinister exhibition
of self-inflicted pain
you try very hard to hide
even from yourself;
in the introvert’s
chamber of torture
you meet it again,
the unwanted guest.
Its talk is convincing,
in a repetitive chant
of cunning words
as cutting as daggers,
it tilts straight for your core.
It probes your resilience
with stinging tendrils
of whispered gossip,
the seeds of doubt.
It leans heavily on flaws
blown out of proportion
and though you realise
there is no authenticity
to its random rambling
and the wild accusations,
your feeble mind is
so apt to listen,
so ready to forfeit love,
so willing to let it break you.
in response to: The Sunday Whirl Wordle #265
photo credit: KingOfWallpapers
© Collins English Dictionary 21st Century Edition
Fight for you
I would rather not,
this being a concept
that puzzles me.
What would I be fighting for?
A love withdrawn,
to me, is a worthless thing,
a pas de deux robbed of its elegance,
last page turned in an already torn book,
a remnant I refuse to reclaim.
A love gone astray,
to me, is a pitiful thing
the faded, yellowed copy
of what used to be grand,
a replica I refuse to recapture.
I am prepared
to make every effort for love
but fighting is not on my agenda.
I would rather ride
the waves of pain and sorrow
as long as it takes to recover.
I prefer to relinquish
what should be a gift
than live with an ill-gotten trophy.
So never ask me
to fight for a lost love,
I will not consider it worth my time.
Into the storm we run again,
the proverbial flock of lemmings,
just one quantum step from the edge,
one second from hitting the water with a plop.
With the imprudence of children
we run ahead without a plan,
models of remote-controlled ignorance,
victims of oversight and custom
we are left to beat the odds.
Brazenly we face obvious disaster,
ignoring all transparent warnings.
We refrain from proper precautions,
ravelling things further with our discursive patterns.
Our common sense is tempered by arrogance
and we feel so sanguine about our ability
to weather anything that bars our way,
we callously dismiss the fact
that those storms were created by us.