Mannequins move when people do not.
The untrodden land a lingering invitation
To which a response is owed yet seldom delivered.  
Edifices of grandeur loom with open arms.

Mannequins move when people do not.
Hills green with envy and
A thousand eyes which blankly stare
At what dares traverse a land bereft.

Mannequins move when people do not.
Voices cry out in an unfamiliar tongue
With an intertwinement of shrieks
And woeful sobs that reverberate far beyond.

Mannequins move when people do not.
Vacant cradles still rock
Back and forth as they once did
Long ago when whines were heard.

Mannequins move when people do not.
A longing to return to what once was
Before the shrapnel had rained
And they marched, unashamed.

Mannequins move when people do not.
Poppies of red made all the redder,
And slanted signatures upon scarlet letters.
Yet, a lone gaze accompanied a fragile thought,
With sorrowfully spoken syllables
And pursed lips, almost hypocritical
In their aimless deed to redefine sympathy.

Mannequins move when people do not.
For what else does when people do not.
Mannequins move in tactless ways,
Not knowing of transgressions of past days.
Mannequins move when people are nought.
Land demands a usual offering,
One of which silence is futile.

The pail hurriedly fills to its brim
From a gushing river, pure and deep.
Unsullied by the chrysanthemums and lilies
Which encircle the babbling brook.

‘Almost full!’ proclaims the Lark
Perched atop an aged oak,
As the wet trickles down the bail,
‘Soon, soon, soon’ he sings his song.

Down flutters the Owl with a hoot,
‘What say you, Lark?’
‘With your songs so sweet and pail bursting,’
Feathered talons grasp the neighbouring birch.

The tinkling warble resumes,
‘Not yet full!’ the Lark weeps,
In a melodic trill.
‘Still. More must be filled.’

Amidst the river stones and collapsed trunks,
The pail sits, engulfed in the serene.
O'er the vessel the Owl hovers,
As talons clutch the sopping bail.

Suddenly, the jaws separate, delivering a soft hoot;
‘To be bursting is no more complete than to be hollow’,
Warns the venerable Owl with its warm,
Serrated feathers surrounding its pale face.

‘Well, when shall I quit?’ asks the Lark in a daze,
Raising its beak to the Heavens.

‘You shan’t quit. For we all strive to be full.’
Asserts the Owl, bathed in divine light,
‘The water shall forever drip in this stream, as it shall drip in you.’
As he ascends in a flurry, the pail too flies,
Splashing upon the adjacent foliage,

Now it rests
    Neither full nor empty.

I
Whether inner or outer, the matter is naught
Many sought after what cannot be bought
Though heart and mind is where it all lies
An impeccable vision beyond your mere eyes.
  
The signature mark of human kind
Dream and reality all intertwined
Cold as ice, hot as raw fire
Grand aesthetic for all to admire –

Seldom achieved, unable to build
Quenches all thirst, all hungers fulfilled
With all imperfections, itself so flawless
Rules are negated; thus, it remains lawless

Greatest of weapons bound by no defence
For it may be subtle, yet so intense
Partnered with love, a potent ideal
Beauty will call, no need to conceal.

II
Silence lay steadily against the barren walls
Aging wood, icy stone
An empty carcass rotting away
Unable to feel or be felt
                        Allowing nothing in or out
Though a poison seeps within its walls
Changing it, from what it was once before
Now wearing a mask as if to disguise,
                   The unseen horrors lurking inside
Goblins and ghouls are the least of your worry
For what lies inside is far more heinous
Beauty’s opposition, readily awaits
No longer a guise hiding the truth -
Reality is met with eager eyes
A stammering figure soundlessly screaming  
Hauling chains and a mirror of lies,
Though not evil, a choice in itself
                   Ugliness within can often be mended.

You collected what remained of Me
With an embrace too familiar.
As barren eyes leered
And spiritless reassurance washed over.

Your once crimson silhouette
Now a fading grey,
Polluting the air with addiction.
Engulfing what you wish to call your own.

My journey and my body
No longer my own.
Perfectly yours as you thief.
A victimless crime so you deceive.
Apathy a cruel creature.
Remorseless and voracious.
And so, I solemnly grieved
For what I was yet to achieve.

The call of the void to remain unanswered.
Yet, there You were to bring me Home.

As I said my goodbyes,
Exited the room in a haze
And hummed a mournful tune.
You lingered in the doorway with glassy eyes
And lips which struggled to perform on command,
A silent voice.

Outside, incandescence guided my journey
As filth cleansed my feet
And barren edifices surrounded me.
The rhythmic drip of murk from
Congregated puffs of white above blinded me.
As her silhouette emerged
Sweet as ever.
Bathed by beams of crimson.
It can’t have been.

You march forward. As though you’ve located your voice
Your lips purse and push each syllable out one after the other,
Your pacifying tenor cherished each sound, like all of what left
Your mouth was lyrics to an unknown song.  
You continued, never stopped, as words gushed like a stream.
I stood, paralysed.