.
Thrown into an event,
temptation wearing a smile,
as you fall into the void
behind my pale blue eyes,
a willing traveller
through gateways of adventure.

And you stumble through
to mystery, unknowable puzzles,
a Pandora's box of imagery,
bound and enslaved,
to dream, reality, memory,
bedecked with lucid hallucination.

The intensely dark and hollow,
the bright lights hot shine,
all swirl in symbiosis,
dazzling and confusing your view,
assaulting your quiet feelings
with butterflies and nausea.

And you sink enthralled,
appalled, intoxicated,
as thoughts, desires, pictures,
flash before your eyes unbidden,
products of inertia
from the depths of my mind.



© Pagan Paul (02/07/18)

I don't like clocks
I cover them with a cloak
I hide away under white covers
Light tries to break through my shades
But I am away, I am away
I am a stowaway
On life's ride
I'm just here for free
I refuse any limitations that would bind me
Time passes like molasses
I'm on a spinning rock
And my mind is spinning too.

The vulture is a peaceful bird
She watches, circles patiently
Waiting for life to become death
So she can gather what she needs

The vulture does not maim or slay
And causes neither harm nor strife
She walks in the shadow of death
And so turns death back into life

I watched...
As the moon revolves
round its stunted orbit.

I mourned...
As the stars left
and disappeared into nothingness.

I felt...
As the earth betrayed
and swayed my balance.

I cried...
As the sun still rose
- unfazed and careless.

I often wonder if Robert Frost
in all his life ever got lost
did that road he took need corrections?
if so, as a man, did he ask directions?

THE EARLY DAYS OF FORGETTING

He looked like he had lived
forever in Tír na nÓg.

Didn't show his age
'til he was seventy.

"Ah, Hades looms!"
he joked.

Unlike Jack Sprat
he didn't eat a lot.

His wife contrary to belief
did that.

What a turn up for
the nursery rhyme.

The past always so
far yet near.

The sweetness of
the sour.

This the early days of
forgetting.

Wearing a purple sock
on his left foot.

A glamorous yellow
on the right.

Forgetting now his own
name.

Forgetting who came.

"And, who...are you?"
he asks his wife.

A poet’s weapon of choice:
Their Pen.

This weapon –
The only tool,
Capable to express
A poet’s emotion.

It lets:
Ink flow on paper,
By its delicate touch;
Emotions to be engraved,
Onto the paper;

Hope; transcends onto it.

This is done by a majestic tool:
Their pen.

I wish to be a poet.
But –

My pen flows with blood,
My pen viciously carves onto
The paper;
Marked – by blood stains.

I wish to be a poet…

However.

My pen; my weapon –
Is not used for writing
But;
For cutting.