Captured by sleep, I fall into fog.

The bugle sounds, and I am on parade.
I read out my plans for the day.

They do not impress the fearful sergeant major of my conscience.

They prove to be inadequate.
As ever.

Anger? No, that would be inappropriate.
This is the twenty-first century after all;
these days, such things happen.
And when they do, nobody thinks twice,

except, in this case, me. Sadness? Yes,
but more than that. Thoughts arise unbidden:
my mind displays your key life moments,
each one a pearl in my memory.

"Pretty as a picture", "bright as a button", people say.
I have to say it too: that is how you were, for me.
You were the small and vulnerable one,
who had to be loved, no matter what.

Nausea? Indeed, that is the heart of it.
Frank Sinatra and seduction are passé, I understand.
But did it have to be squalid?
With a man like that, in the shopping mall car park?

Now I must get to know a stranger:
my daughter, the easy lay.

I never said I loved you.
Though I told you that I really liked your company;
which I did, and do.

Amanda is my sweetheart.
As your oldest and most trusted friend, she's there for you.
Yes she was, and is.

I never mentioned marriage.
Though your bedroom's witnessed many scenes of *******.
Just good fun, I thought.

Just one of many bedrooms.
All those in-and-out exertions in the cotton sheets?
They were commonplace.

I never said I'd cure you
of your hang-ups and your frequent trips to la-la land.
You were too far gone.

Abandon the placebo.
Just take stock of who you are, and who you want to be.
Look for someone else.

Even a witch has to be trained.
The broomstick needs skill to operate,
so pay attention.

Advanced students can use the high-performance stick.
They urge on the cylindrical thruster;
it accelerates rapidly to the treetops.

But usually, time is available for a gentler ride.
Aim to thread a path through the trees.
Focus your thoughts on the ideal route — the stick will obey.

Quiet concentration and subtlety are requirements.
Listen carefully to the night and the forest;
adjust your controls accordingly.

At the end of the journey, review your progress.
If you steer correctly, contentment will be your pillow.
Otherwise, you should refine your strategy.

Remember: you will be held accountable.

Welcome, traveller, to the island of despair.

Every morning, my staff will insinuate
into your skull what you already know:
you were born useless, and will forever remain so.
Most of your colleagues find you laughable; the rest, despicable.
You are shamefully inadequate, and fail to qualify
as a human being. ****, yes. Sapiens, no.

Do not hope for redemption:
this is the land of infinite regret.

Between tree line and snow line, the alpine plants survive.
Cold and desiccation are enemies, but there is no surrender.
Clonal propagation is adequate: *** is often dispensed with.

Between fame and indifference, the quiet people settle.
Ice is melted by family life.
Coupling does occur: but surreptitiously.

Between the eccentric and the outrageous, my love lives.
No-one is ever oblivious to her presence.
An immediate outflow of passion is always an option.

Time to go upstairs, dearest one.
Time for a re-enactment of the big bang.
Time to roar.

My! Where did you learn to do that, Cynthia?

Words can bite.
Mostly just a nip — easily forgotten.
But sometimes an injection of neurotoxin,
whereby you lose your nerve.

In the night-time woods, small life scurries in the undergrowth,
mostly unseen by human eyes.
But sometimes moonlight is revelatory,
striking a shaft of momentary wonder.

Do not give in, fellow scribbler.
There is something extraordinary to see.
You are in the best position to see it,
and make others wish they had seen it, too.

Re-assess your wound, and its author.
Probably just a *****; best ignored.