The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

My waking time
in the narrowest part of the creek
chases spots in the shadows
a streak between bushes
thirsty tongue lapping green opal
cautious cotton on the fallen leaves
the priceless prowler in the morn mist
or in the dusk
the graceful glory
in the hinterland of my heart.

They
        
               Say
    
                          Good

                                      Man

                         Are

                 Hard

                             To

                                     Find

                                              I
    
                                Say
  
                      Maybe

      Perhaps
      
         We’re
                
                Just
          
                       Very

                            Good

                                 At

             Playing

                           Hide

                                   And

                                            Seek.

I dream of a long awaited  freedom.
I find myself alone on a beach.
Pale sands before me stretching to the azure blue of the ocean.
I turn and I notice that there is but a single trail of footsteps in the sand behind me.
The soft golden plain before me untouched, unspoilt, virginal.
I breathe the warm sea breeze and my throat is tight and rasping.
I glance down at my body and discover I am naked.
Vulnerable and unprotected.
My form is thin and fragile and I muse I must have been here for a time.
As if emerging from the deepest slumber, bleary eyed and cloudy of mind.
With a tangible feeling  within of a severance, a long awaited shift.
I squint far in the distance and to my surprise I see a house atop a hill.
I notice that the windows of this house are crisscrossed in iron bars.
There is a long drive leading to a a set of unyielding padlocked gates installed  amidst  high stone walls that surround the property.
I remember then...This is the home of my childhood.
An incarceration felt long after I had flown.
Those same bars and walls carefully recreated and erected in my own life, by my own hand.
I take a final glance and turn away.
The single set of prints in the sand a reminder of my own path , waiting to be trod.
Realisation that the old ways can no longer serve me.
An awareness of the power within me to break free from those who seek to control,silence and limit my growth.
The walls and bars offering not protection, but oppression.
A disconnection and detachment from others and ultimately from oneself.
Waging a war against an invisible enemy until one is but a vessel full  of fear and discontent.
I shall not visit the house on the hill again.
My home shall be without walls and endless as the ocean before me.

finding no rhyme nor reason
trying not to give into fear
is this just a passing of season
the reason you're no longer here

only faint memory graces these pages
long gone song filled our hearts and our minds
time slipping away with the ages
lost alice...i'm still hoping to find

              ...lost alice
        once stood on this corner

                                   ...lost alice
                                laid open her scars

   ...lost alice
threw caution to the wind

                          ...lost alice
                  do you know where you are

you stood in your whirlwind of poetry
often letting the demons give you a ride
did they come back to pick you up
are they now in the front by your side

"this is what happens when i step off the path"
the last words you tore from life's page
if i knew what door i'd let you out
or are you lost alice...the rest of your days