Pain.
It's tempting.
Hidden in hearts
That hold onto memories.
Addiction.

Healing.
It's reluctant.
The mind fails
But it always continues.
Affliction.

The Room of Dancing Shadows,
undulating across the wall,
like ****** Persian ballerinas,
making no sound at all.
Reaching, retreating, a mosaic form,
eternally shifting the dark shade.
Pictures of no light in a flux,
remain fragmented, cold, unmade.
Hypnotising, random shapes in black,
swim serenely, start to slide.
The Room of Dancing Shadows
holds its fear deep, deep inside.


© Pagan Paul (03/10/16)

The truth is…
              the real truth…?
                             Do people do that?

How’s my new dress?
                                             It makes you look fat.

Like my new do?
I paid quite a lot
                                             You got ripped off, dear,
                                               You might even sue.

How are you today?
Just a quick answer please
I don’t have the time
To hear of your bad knees.
                                              I’m doing fine, knowing
                                               You don’t want to hear
                                               My problems and stresses
                                               I won’t bend your ear.


A “white lie” is easier
Makes conversation go fast
Then again, you just never know
When you might hear the real truth
It could be quite a blow.
So beware

the truth is…

If you don’t want the real truth?
Perhaps you shouldn’t ask.

Born within a generational divide,
But some people will argue otherwise;
An affliction for movies of childhood,
*Like feeling the nostalgia I never got to experience.

My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.