When the lights dim into darkness,
Then sneaks in on shifty legs
the Puppet-Master.

Curtains drawn the show commences,
On strings our limbs begin to ****
To the pull of unseen forces.

We become Punch or Judy,
Unlovable and unloved,
Unmoved to love another.

For when our souls
Are draped in darkness,
Love’s wisdom is lost.

Only when we wake once more
Are we able to remember
The remedy for this malady…

To open our wounded hearts,
For the Puppet-Master shrinks away
From the light of an open heart.

The least-loved actor on the stage,
She is as beautiful as the moon

... and just as pale.

She stands alone in the spotlight,
Surrounded by darkness

... with the courage to feel.

She is real, honest and truthful,
In this theatre of shadows and lies

... her tears are no act.

Driving in the dark,
Headlights on the road ahead,
Black night lies beyond.

My world is the car,
In the warmth of the cabin,
The instrument's glow.

The headlight's beam shows
The road streaming by smoothly
In endless long lines.

A tunnel of light,
Hypnotic pairs of cats-eyes
Curving towards me

Resonating with
The engine's harmonic drone,
Mesmerising me.

Night in the mirror,
And ahead beyond the light,
The unknown darkness.

Existence draws in,
To the road in the light's beam,
And inside the car.

The present moment,
Of the car and the lit road,
Is all that exists.

Driving in the dark,
Our cars never leave the light,
Stay in the present.

The rest is darkness,
There is no past or future,
Just imaginings.

Everyone exists
In the light of the present,
Driving in the dark.

Alone in your ***,
Your roots cruelly clipped and trimmed,
You are diminished.

How windswept you look,
Your gnarled limbs styled and designed
To create mere mood.

No longer are you
A tree with limbs stretching free,
Spreading your wild seeds.

No wind stirs you now,
No longer a home for birds
Your being's reduced.

Bound to cruel fashion
Like a Chinese woman's feet,
You have been enslaved.

Mere decoration,
Nature becomes artefact
Tamed to appear wild.

So does the artist
Clip imagination when
Bowing to fashion.

So does the artist,
In serving gods of style,
Diminish himself.

... no words left in my fingertips...

I needed
Lots of chocolate ice-cream...

... and all the shops had empty shelves.

Who would you become
If the character you played
Appeared before you?