Farther away, where the cars
are all painted dull black,
        and the
         leaves on the ground
           have
           already died,
      that is where the
       walls are being built.

Strong walls. Walls of
impregnable fortitude.
    Walls that will
        never be
          overcome.

Behind them, that
is where I shall be.
        Hidden.
         Forgotten.
Put aside to live
      with all the
        other people
         behind these stones.

We will be quiet here.
Dwelling thoughts lost
        in managing
        individual funeral pyres.
Outside these fortified rocks
      will be the footsteps
      of people who do
       not care to see
         anything beyond
         what they feel is
         marvellously important.
Pecking fingers on their
       cell phones
       in their peculiar, solitary
       way of being a
          "community".

We might hear them
    from time to time,
distant sounds
    that penetrate the
      rock fed monster
      we have built to
       surround our
         last moments.

Water falls in a
    rainfall of passion.
Cups hold liquids
    that are never drunk.
We share the same
    determined falling,
ending up the same
    kind of dead.

Goodbye people
      outside our walls.
Thank you for
       peering at us
        once in awhile.
And now the Biblical gates
       are opening.
Now the walls around
       us are shattered.
Leaving here, we
    become the pictures
        on an internet page;
where people will
      write R.I.P. in
        the comments.
A like button
    will be pressed,
       as they move on
        to the next entry.

Conversations over.
Memories diffused.

Stones from the wall
    fashioned into tombstones.
Names etched on them,
       and some plastic flower arrangements
         all that remains.

we tiptoe,
stepping through
stories of lives past
watched by a cascading
hologram of
mists and possibilities.
the first step
we enter leads
us like leaves dipping
in the rain to
white fences and
stop signs, red lights
and caution.
waking up or
falling asleep, we never
notice the patterns
to our weaving webs.
we imagine and we
pontificate, making
noises of promises
we will not keep.
slipping footfalls
that walk in
circles, and when
through, begin again.
we tiptoe,
expecting to not
be notable, and so
in doing same,
we leave
yet
do not
arrive.

Wondering how to imagine flowers
in a city covered with concrete towers.
There are so many signs that lack truth,
when heart is still and will never heal.

I walk the confines of my walls at night,
only sensing the world out of sight.
What am I searching for, I do wonder,
as confusing images blink on and off.

What does it matter if I never find
the answers to questions so unkind?
With poignant malice so pronounced
do the crawling lice stand so proud.

I sense that I shall always remain
filled with dread that fosters pain.
Internally the wheels will grind
as I try and cease their rolling.

I understand the midnight moon,
for it signifies my private womb.
There are so many signs that lack truth,
when heart is still and will never heal.

I sense the touch of God
     when I pray my rosary.
His presence strong in
   the chanting of the words.
I know that He is here
       by the peace that I feel.

Words intoned so ancient,
            beautiful and serene.
Comforting me in
           ways I can not explain.
Through Mary to Jesus,
         my salvation ensured.

God provides solace
       to those who seek Him.
In the echoes of despair
     He brings me assurance
of blessings and hope
            which He restores.

So many moments
   lost in useless ventures.
So many times I
         tried to be supreme.
Only with God do I
   triumph in my dreams.

Heavenly Lord, Father,
    thank you for your words.
I pray my rosary in joy,
        loving every holy word.
May God, the Holy Trinity
        continue to be with me.

I count the grass on the ground.
I count the clouds in the sky.

Summer is happening.
People are complaining
about the heat and humidity.

Air conditioners are conditioning.
Aeroplanes are flying overhead.

Other people are occupied with
their own dramas and situations.

Me, I am just being quiet. Not
looking to talk with anyone.

I am thinking of how matter of
fact the Doctor was when he
shared his professional opinion.

As if he was talking about the
hot summer weather; as if
the temperature was crucial.

I listened to every word he said.
Shook his hand and thanked him.

Strange how we fall so easily
into the habits we've been fed.

I count the grass on the ground.
I count the clouds in the sky.

I will never reach the end.
Will I ever reach the end?

Will I be sitting here, next
summer, counting anything
at all? What do the clouds
do when the grass turns
brittle and darkly brown?

Lucid dreaming is the doorway
        to the unconscious.
So dream.
Do not stay closed
        behind cement barricades
        blocking the moon
        from shining.
Live.
Each second is for you.
The tumbling of life
         does not promise
            anything.
In one breath
you can have
        a time table
        handed to you.
A distinct framework
        of how much
        longer you shall be.
Stay in illusion.
Keep in mind
that very little
is worthy of
being screamed about.
Politics
        and
people games
        are not
         the substance
        of existing.
Picture colourful images
         that flutter
          playfully
            across the
           mental horizon.
A traffic light
      will
       blink
red, yellow, green.
A noise
        will dominate
         the shading sky.
These mean nothing.
Moments of distraction
        soon
         gone away.
Focus on fantasy.
Allow yourself
the freedom to
         celebrate
        the essence
        of harmony.
When you die,
       it will be
         your dreams
         that are
          remembered.
Breathe.
It's just
      a bad day,
      not a bad life.

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.

Whispers the heart, insisting and so soft,
"Life goes on. Death is not dying."
Faith, that is the message. Let His
will be done, however it works out.

Fears are there. Yes, they can consume.
They can strangle and inhibit the
very will to walk on. Ease them away,
He walks with you, soothing and firm.

We rumble through our eggshells,
rushing through buildings of steel.
Pushing, shoving, important in
our unimportance. Unbalanced.

We eat too much and love far
too little. Strain ours ears to
hear gossip and slander. Be
the image we pretend to be.

These are of such insignificance.
They are bottles of nothing, with
shaded glass. Emblems of issues
that are manufactured. Unfeeling.

The truth is in Him. When we
face trials of aggravations, tears
of lost hope, that is when we
need His care the most. Forgiven.

He has always been. He will
always be. He will glide the
care of the body if you give
Him the word. Yes, He answers.

So to Jesus, I appeal. I put my
trust and my fate. Though
blocked in fear, still I marvel,
that He is there for me. Amen.

Your textile face strong
      as a white feather.
Determination set in
      neatly labelled crayons
      lined up on the table.

We named the colours together,
      with the casual manner
      of having a life of time.

There was harmony once.
Spontaneous laughter that
      filled the cathedrals of
      our happiness.

Drifting off to sleep
       with the sounds of
      our favourite movie
      ringing in my ears.

I remembered
knocking on your door
when I first met you.

His brown eyes open,
absorbing every experience
that has been his to know.
A looking back, sorting
mangled bolts of history.

His story. His remembering.

With dying hands he strokes
the threads that have
unraveled around him.

He blinks, and he lets
a single teardrop glisten
on his lived in face.

There are miracles and
there are no miracles.

Either way, the prognosis
is what it is. He knows
everything he knows
and yet he
knows almost nothing.

Tall buildings and concrete streets.
City traffic on major roads.
People. So many people
occupying the urban sprawl.
In the midst of all this he
speculates on any number
of significant resolutions.

How cold his heart feels!
How resigned and dark
are his thought patterns!

With gratitude, perhaps,
he reminds himself that
one thing often leads
to another. There is
neither rhyme nor reason
to what is to come.

And when the droning
that inhabits his thinking
becomes too loud to hear,
he can shut his eyes.
Close them tight.
Let his eyelids be
his entire world
and
sit
like
a
rubber
hammer
banging
nails
into
his
heart.

His brown eyes open,
absorbing every experience
that has been his to know.
A looking back, sorting
mangled bolts of history.

His story. His remembering.

With dying hands he strokes
the threads that have
unraveled around him.

He blinks, and he lets
a single teardrop glisten
on his lived in face.

There are miracles and
there are no miracles.

Either way, the prognosis
is what it is. He knows
everything he knows
and yet he
knows almost nothing.

Tall buildings and concrete streets.
City traffic on major roads.
People. So many people
occupying the urban sprawl.
In the midst of all this he
speculates on any number
of significant resolutions.

How cold his heart feels!
How resigned and dark
are his thought patterns!

With gratitude, perhaps,
he reminds himself that
one thing often leads
to another. There is
neither rhyme nor reason
to what is to come.

And when the droning
that inhabits his thinking
becomes too loud to hear,
he can shut his eyes.
Close them tight.
Let his eyelids be
his entire world
and
sit
like
a
rubber
hammer
banging
nails
into
his
heart.

Eyes open and close.
Lean back, let what happens happen.

Words are sometimes like abortions.
Forced out before their time.

Screaming lips, hasty tongues.

Body tired. Uncomfortable.
Does it still belong to me?

Do secret vowels leak out
from weary lips? Am I touching

the right sort of optimism?

I want to drink the wine
of redemptive healing.

Letting it slip and slide
over the internal sickness.

When healed, when this is done,
I'll shout words of praise.
I'll proclaim eternal thankfulness
to God, who alone heals.

Yes, it is clear that
the morning sun has risen again.
He stretches as tall as he can
and folds
paper aeroplanes.
Is that music playing he hears?
No.
Shouting. Neighbours
expressing their broken
vows to one another.
And even so, he knows
that if he opens his
apartment door, only
the hallway will greet him.
400 units or more in
this glass and concrete
community. Vague nods
to the occasional dweller
in the elevator. Distance
practiced with surprising ease.
Isn't all blood the same
type of hand cream?
But it is never enough.
Nothing ever is.
His wings might be
a figment of his
desperation, but still
they can carry him
from the roof to the
ground.
Yes, it is clear that
the morning sun has risen again.
He stretches as tall as he can
and folds
paper aeroplanes.
Flicking his lighter,
starting a fire.
Better to burn now
before the
coffee has
finished brewing.

You can hear silence, if you listen.
        Stop your breathe and tap
          into the empty.

Oh chalice of hope, too often
        left unfilled, drain
          the resistance.

Lie back, close the thoughts
        and open your eyes.
Believing does not
        require seeing.

Allow sentence after sentence
        to remain unanswered.
Be unrestricted enough
        to not be alarmed.

Fountain of ice, melt away
        and liquefy into sharp
          pencils of vision.

Sighing in peace, letting
        the lace curtains of
          contentment to rise.

Skin to be stroked
        with the developing
        essence of being
        in contemplative mode.

You can hear silence, if you listen.
        Listen now.