Spaces have been erected around the box.
                    Inside stands the shadow man.
                  Crucifix dangling from his neck.
Rosary beads furiously being
                                      pumped in his hand.
Pray, shadow man, pray.

So he does.

He prays for the world.
      He prays for the universe.
            Mostly he prays for himself.

There is a world of difference
           between living and pretending;
           between being and existing.
Shadow man is unsure of which
               position he stands within.
Pray, shadow man, pray.

A bullet is faster than strangulation.
Choking kills the body but not the mind.
Around and around the dozen or so devils
                                          are circling the box.
"Come out and play" they whisper
                                           to the shadow man.

But he ignores the evil outside for
       it has already become his inside.
It has become a normal pattern
                                  of his situation.
Pray, shadow man, pray.

He will never leave his box.
The luminous walls are
                   his zone of safety.
Where are the answers?
Where are the solutions?

They exist.
They survive for other shadows.

Not for shadow man himself.
Pray, shadow man, pray.

I listen to whispering voices,
telling myself to breathe, just breathe.

I take pleasure that now
I am just a breeze
that blows by
as it goes it's own way

Not bothered by
dysfunctional memories.
Putting them away.
Locked in attic, ignored.

Irritated by nothing
because I've stuffed
glue into my ears.

Screams for help
shot like broken arrows
from your broken you.

I whisper in harmony
with the voices.

We are pretending together
that your need
is not greater
then mine.

I love you.
Or at least
I used to love you
before you found
your broken bow
to stop the wind.

Blowing by
on broken breezes
caressing myself
as the whispering voices
tell me to carry on.

"Blessings to you for your prayers."
So thinks the sailor as he travels.
He thinks of his family, his friends.
He knows he loves them all.

The sea today is rough.
It shakes his ship like
the rumbling of lava
filtering fiercely
from a volcanoe.
The sailor thinks
he is not in fear.
He knows this is
only a covering he
employs
to help his ship to sail.

There are other ships
on his ocean. Other
sailors on the same
shattered journey.
Together, they form a
small fleet of larvae
hoping to burst from
the sea in a glorious
splash of redemption.

Ah, redemption. Strength.
That is the treasure the
sailor seeks on the
bloated waves of the
foaming waters.

His eyes look ahead.
His eyes looks behind.
His eyes look inside and out.
Searching as a single cell
the truth he needs to find.
The other travellers may
not be of any help to him.
They may be travelling on the
same sea, but they are
looking for their own
hoped for miracles.

Oh restless sea, let him be.
Free him from your
rocking and swaying.
Let his ship land. Land
back to the steady shores
of hope and positive living.

"Blessings to you for your prayers."
So thinks the sailor as he travels.
He thinks of his family, his friends.
He knows he loves them all.

In the morning she hums.
She makes her coffee and
butters her toast.

She opens her newspaper
and submits herself
to the daily crisis.

She pleases herself.

Digests the news she
is reading like a seasoned veteran
returning from a war.

She sees a picture
of the Prime Minister.
He's somewhat handsome she thinks.

She likes the way his eyes sparkle
when he fabricates a position to follow.

One day she might take herself
to Ottawa.
Sit in Parliament and follow
along with the story, live as it were.

Maybe she'd shout down from
the Visitors Gallery her opinion
on the matters of the day.

She would not get evicted.
The RCMP would not bother with her.

She knew the Prime Minister would
look up at the interruption and, upon
seeing her, would become enamored with her.

He'd leave his wife and family.

She'd be responsible for the
marital collapse of the man.

Sighing, she smiled inwardly
at the plans she was making.

Of course, in order to make
anyone fall in love with her,
she'd actually have to leave the house.

How could she do that?

There were too many cats to feed
and take care of.
Anyway, she didn't do well
with real people.

In the morning she hums.
She makes her coffee and
butters her toast.

Morning finds the wind beating softly
                           against the rising sun.
Wraps my scarf around my neck
                       as I watch the squirrels
dancing on the hydro lines.
They do not feel me watching them.
The spinning shade hides my presence.
My thoughts have finally reached
                   decisions of withdrawal.
The forgotten distance everyone
will become is some sort of comfort
              as I stretch my arms towards
              the infinite eye of surrender.
Nothing changes in an atmosphere
                 of constant repercussions.
Just like the hiding moon,
                  all of the doors are both
                              open and closed.
I will only state my point of view
          to the hollow shadows that
speckle like underwear wrapped
             too tight against the body.
Somewhere a siren is wasting time
               blasting its noise against
            the heat of the rising day.
Inside my ears I also hear
the angry words of so many
                        different tongues.
It is a struggle to keep
my composure, for I want
         to scream my anger back
                                      at them.
But this would be useless gestures
of compliance. It would be
giving in when I already have
            decided to give up instead.
Even the sky seems to walk
                              away from me.

She sat at a bus stop,
tracing brick-loads of doubt
                      with her finger.
She waits.
She is not waiting.
She is not sure what she is doing.
Were there ever pink candles
                       on a birthday cake?
A little girl skipping
.                   with other little girls.
Another standing still memory of
.            impeccable social standing.
Too many bothersome thoughts
                      prickling in her head.
"I used to like to dance", she shares
          with a picture of her husband.
Stupid man.
He only loved her when it suited him.
"That's alright", she whispered,
          "He saw me in a whole new light
              when I drove my knife into
                                                  his *****."
She wondered how much longer she'd have
                     to wait for him to bleed to death
                                         on her kitchen floor.
Hopefully soon.
She had dishes to do.
Laundry to fold.
She could do for a
        nice cup of coffee.
She stretched out her legs.
It looked like it would rain today.

When blue turns to grey,
walk gently into the fog.
Let the dimness open
the
avenues
of
renewal.
We are all circling
the same decisions.
Bleeding with the blood
of our ancestors in our veins.
One connected road
that
is
populated
with
similar
beginnings.
The end for each
is the only
different journey.
Circle the wagons
and
draw the blinds.
Enter the secrets
of
a million years.
This cleansing is
quenching
the
breaking
wood.
Enclose the pictures
of other scenes
into the frames
of
grabbing
snares.
Trapped. Locked in.
Nothing can
drive
the
doubt
away.

I just want answers.
I just want answers.