The problem with phantoms, rings so clear
Like fear, they don't just go away
The more is learnt of the world, the smaller it becomes
The less of open space is felt.


The mnemonist lives in a pretty tale
And heads the way off rocky shores
For, oft a fool will come along
And wilful, bash his mind on reef.


Spill then thee, cantankerous spirit
Thy guts of ill-placed rancour
For in puny efforts to uproot
Fresh soil turned is...fresh soil turned.


The more we feed on empty words
The larger grows that aching void
Engulfing all but esurience
Engorged thus, thee will choke.


A mere gesture of goodwill
And extending act of kindness
Will conquer every wicked sentiment
And leave thee broken ... in thy own mess.


So, thy tiresome pictures on the wall, we see
Paint on, dear artist, paint on
These very merry parties, ye assemble
Will ken thy sharp and twisted ire.


Push on, weary soul, try to find thy heart
Thee seest not thy efforts fall in vain,
Fail to latch, for thy error sits too tall
In the absence of saving grace.


So caught up in thyself, art thee
Thine eye too bright upon the prize
That thou did not see thy plot at play
Thy goest yet on; breaching full redemption.


Weave thus thy tale and clothe thy mind
For, in this act, thy mind doth shut
So ill-fitting thy own garish attire
Seams must needs split eventual.


Seeketh truth and truest, thy find's a trove
But sadder yet's the day, indeed
All vouch that in thy heavy plunder
Its value now plain conferred.


Treasure trinkets, happy hoops
Whatever be thy favour's currency
When day is done and swift sea smoothes
Revered will always be...saving grace.


Star Toucher, 17 February 2013