Clutching an anvil
close to my chest
as I struggle
to tread the water.

I’m sinking...

Run the bow across the strings,
and play a tune.

Play my soundtrack.

Play it soft yet sharp
and wrenching.

Play it in the background.
Let the notes run in conflict,
depict agitation and foster
an increasing sense of foreboding.



Because I lay still this night
in perfect disharmony.

I made a painting.
One of the future.

My brush was sure
my strokes, deliberate.

I had chosen colours loud
I had chosen them fearlessly.

Think I’ve completed my painting.
And I hate it.

I wasn’t so afraid
of shadows that stalk.

Wish I wasn’t so afraid
of demons that talk.