take my hand and don’t let go
hold God’s hand with your other
give no attention to what you hear
it is only murmurs of lies
words which are of no substance
the sounds of phantoms
they want to destroy you
to cause unbearable pain
to everyone you love
do not listen
please


do not let go with either hand
so that you cannot take
the hand of Death
when it is offered

I awoke in the morn and walked to the shore
But the sea was faraway, could be seen no more
The abandoned beach stretched far as the eyes
None else was there, it was lonely sunrise.
There was no wave crowning the beach
The sea seemed vanished by a vengeful witch
My disappointment I could barely hide
I was supposed to be on a lovely seaside.
The wind though swept my face
As if to soothe and calmly redress
My discontent at the barren shore
Seeking a sea that was there no more!
Though crestfallen I was not homebound
Rolled my trousers, climbed the sands’ mound
And then I heard the casuarinas whisper
‘We’re here as the waves’ murmur’!

What goes around comes around,
so what's going on around here?
I don't remember coming round,
it's all so foggy, nothing is clear

How'd I end up on this merry-go-round
and why is it in such high gear?

I don't remember touching down,
I don't remember the all-clear
Since take off I can't hear a sound,
I need to pop more than my ears

All I remember is the bend you drove me round
So why am I alone
paying to play in a haunted fairground?

.
     I stare down at the plate of toast and beans
     wondering why this was never part of my dreams.
     Looking for the future with an illusional pretence,
     hoping good apples will fall on my side of the fence.

And as the fork dances slow
around the legumes in spirals,
the tedium of a wasting life
bears the burden and scars
of missed opportunities in paralysis
and the colour of once bright lights
          glow black,
shining a shadow into the void
covering the bruises
that were once achievements of worth,
     now tender patches
          of failure.
I drop the fork ...

     … pushing away the plate and leaving food uneaten,
     my desire for its nutrition fought and beaten,
     Looking at the apple tree with sombre regret
     maybe its fruit will fall and save me yet.

And disappointment
is worse than anger,
it begins with the stench of loss
the nasal whiff of
what if …

And what if the little apple tree
drops all its fruit down to me?
Would I recognise fortune on my side
or fear the illusions and run to hide?


© Pagan Paul (17/02/18)