There lived a man, a crooked man
Whose shadow far did it trail
He walked with aching joints
And clumsy footfalls ever so frail

The man who seemed to have prized his solitude
This company he could never appreciate
He had made this journey in a futile attempt
To flee from his grounded mate

The man had cursed and hurled stones at it
He shouted with his old, failing voice
Made known that he didn't want to be stalked
He begged to be granted his choice

But the man whose eyes were used and grey
He never could see very well
We see him berating his own crooked shadow
For he was old and never could tell

He hastened his pace but his shadow still stuck
As long as his feet touched the ground
At times he would rest, at the foot or the crest
Breathing heavily without a sound

Know this man, the crooked man
Whose clothes were tattered and torn
See this man, the crooked man
Whose body was tired and worn

he speaks loud but in ink

he thinks quietly in riddles

he writes surely in metaphors

oh how he voices but achieve only babbles

Of mud and clay,
drawing strength from the sun.

In the heat,
insides harden even if layers begin to peel.

But in the rain,
the shell concedes and starts to run.

All is left,
is a puddle - stagnant and bereft of zeal.

Seek the voice of the wind
that blows so silent,

between the song
of the soaring gull.

Seek the quiet
between your breaths,

and you shall find me
unseen but skimming the lull.

.
pry the night sky open

let bathe the earth in subtle light

pry open the doors to my heart

let love spread with surety and might

.

Pitter patter pelt
Darkened clouds consume the light
Sun isn't here now

He voiced the words...

And the spell
fell clumsily from his lips -
unfounded
and rather obtuse.

But when he finally speaks
with his heart...

Magic bursts forth
and
the enchantment
ensues...

It's an ungodly hour.
And I've been kept awake.

The world beckons.
And it didn't call with melodious
chirps from the birds in the trees.
It wasn't the soft, calming pitter patter
of raindrops upon the window pane.


Thoughts...


Sneaky, almost sinister thoughts.

Like fine-grain sandpaper that gently rubs
against the quiet skin.
Like a fine-toothed comb that jabs
lightly and repeatedly into the scalp.
Like a tiny paper cut that is invisible
yet you know it's there.

Slowly abrading...
Poking...
Stinging...

Eating away at the thin veil
of silence and peace
that barely blankets my being.

•••

I am now awake.
And I have been awake...
Thinking, doubting and second guessing...
At this ungodly hour.

I don’t expect
people to ask.
And I don’t hope
for others to
understand.


I’m a puzzle
only I can solve.




Actually no,
I can’t.

.

There lived a man, a crooked man
Who bore his life upon his back
It took a toll and weighed him down
As he trudged along the track

He'd resigned to his fate as the day grew late
Ignoring his unwelcomed guest
He had spoken no words as he continued on
Till he decided to stop and rest

But his health was failing and his feet were aching
His destination no one could know
He crumbled to his knees in the setting sun
As daylight lost its glow

He knew that dusk was skirting so near
He knew that night would come to shroud
And soon he would be overwhelmed
By shadows that would come to crowd

He curled into his lanky self
He cowered in shame and fear
For all the things he tried to leave behind
Crouched now in the dark so near

He trembled and quivered
No one could hear him cry
He whimpered and grovelled
Knowing that there was where he'd die

Know this man, the crooked man
Who then had given up on hope
He shivered and sobbed knowing full well
That he'd reached the end of his rope

.

I’ve grieved…
Not so much over what was lost.
More so the way
I tried to bury these memories.

Candles…
that for a time once,
stoked hale,
unflickering flames.

All tied to strings
that lead straight to my heart
and all partially buried…
In many a shallow grave.

•••

Perhaps because a deeper tomb
would mean a lesser purchase
and looser grip on these strings.

I never could let go…

.

We will walk
this crumbling precipice
with the kinks in our backs.

We will pay
no mind and no heed,
the darkness that encroaches
from unassuming cracks.

i haven't
any thoughts
to offer
except for the
mismatched
musings from
the mind
and heart

so let this
ink on parchment
match the requiem
of the hour

I’m parchment...
soaked with illegible ink.

Almost indelible even...
I’m soaked right to the core.

However incoherent,
I need to be written.

However impossible,
I need to be forgiven.

We both
fell in love
with the idea
of eternity.

Unfortunately,
eternity...
Never fell for us.

Will he
awaken
from a
wide-eyed
slumber?

Will he
be the
bearer
of bated
breaths?

Will he
succumb
to the calls of the
nether after?

When he
indulges in
romanticised notions
of untimely
deaths.

.

Nights don’t change…

Perhaps just the stories
they weave in infinites
from the fires of stars
and embers of hearts…

Or perhaps it’s the way
they were captured
and deciphered;
Reworded and retuned
to the song and dalliance
of the hand-wielded ink.