Darkness is funny in the ways he works.
I feel him embrace me from behind, like old friend's surprises
In a room full of fresh bright and clean faces, I only recognize one
There will be only him to run back to.

I picked the name as darkness arbitrarily.
He goes by loss, despair, many others he doesn't want me to say
I try to ditch him, to unfriend this glitch in my normality, turn every corner looking for a way to unhook myself from this line
I use him as he engulfs me, intensely scales as I excuse myself from dinner.

He doesn't leave, turning to faces surround me
he will be there
A stench of a disaster, stains on holy clothes, we will not be separate
The days I have without him are short, warm, comforting
There's that word,
I burn uneasy from that name than I do of my old friend
He knows how to cloth me
willed days to be long, lost and cold.

I run to find the ease of unhappiness and solitude day in and day fall
I don't mean to be rude, I must go, I'm in need of darkness.

My room does not
evolve or become;
it morphs instantly and before your eyes.
Things move and fly they burn and cry.  

I watch as a dust devil conquers invades
Two minutes later,
waltzing brooms on parade.

I stuff my room full of
glass metal wood.
Some would say hoarding
I reply misunderstood.

Most of the glass is pretty much broken,
the wood is all scorched, the metal contorted.
All of its stays because my hand has spoken.

My room is a magical place replete with spirits and souls and little doors to inner-space.

It likes to listen to music, the scent of a dog... It begs to get ****** off a good Sensi fog.

My room inspires my hands to create...
Whether with torches or pencil, hammers or lathes.

I often ponder
what will become
of my room when I die?
Perhaps as I come back
to bid farewell....
I'll leave a piece of my soul to guard it at night

maybe not looking like i would
             not sounding like i would
             not moving like i would
but
i am until
i found myself

i feel
safe in the night
droplets against my chin
blending with the tears
you call your own;

let me
escape from the storm
you created after paradise
and run
run with the wind

The paint is flaking and falling off
splotched edges
discoloration
stormy days
weathered years
creaking and leaking
cracking from heating
the physics of aging
and seasons of raging
the terrible toll
they are taking
makes you think this old house
needs replacing.

But listen to the voices
of laughter and loving
hear echoes of weeping
and promise keeping
poems that were spoken
being whole and broken
see the tears that were shed
the glories in bed
sighs and lies
some of them said
inside the house that was home
these many years.


Inside spirit reigns
with angels unchained
where heart and soul
on a journey bold
through seasons of pain
where demons were slain
new life was greeted
death was cheated
souls were enrolled
in miracle courses
treasures discovered
of higher forces.


This old house of seventy six years
holds joys along with fears.
The structure isn’t new
but inside
there is
youth.

Take a peek inside his poems
if you really want to know him.
He hides himself deep, immersed
a tiny piece in every verse.

Take a peek and take your time
savour the moment of every line.
Relish the thought of what lies there
and appreciate his soul laid bare.

© Pagan Paul (31/08/16)

I’ve waited for you,

  for

          so

                        long.


i’m tired now. but I hope
one day you remember me.

all those,


                                efforts

               ­ texts,

calls.