I am the eye on your shelf
I am the scratches of ink
that rip through unbarred arenas-
when sunken bones and unburied prints
amass a clump of
galloping words
tracing measured tracks
of battles forlorn

Hence my history beckons and the
leather straps like tires
machinal; my life
reduced to rubble burn-marks
in a book that
made you look
without a care
for where-
to put it.

another whisper in the wind which once
carried its conquered careful balance
Now sits still as a spineless paperweight
propped up by the heap of dust
in your periphery

callously cradling curious kids
hounds make the sounds to scare the men
hurricanes in my periphery
violent wash, electricity
buying unobtainable zen

I'm out here on the periphery
a ghost of a voice
barely heard
except in the extreme
of silent screams
if you listen carefully
you will feel my words
fill your silence
as tears start to fall
desperation creeps
to the top of the hall
by the stairs
to the bridge
dark water below
the rope tightening
before the chair fall
and thoughts of lights out
game over
do not pass go
flicker across a fragile mind
I am out here
on your periphery
I can break your fall

There’s a lot we don’t understand
Our worlds are shrouded in mystery
But wisdom is close at hand
When we give credence to our periphery

Shades of green
Softly flow as lucid dreams
A pristine gleam
Rising heights towards the light
Gentle tones as canes bow
The air parts through yellow darts
Our periphery unseen

Sharp leaves and strength condensed
Where short roots shape new shoots
Support structures or weapons of war
To create beauty or destruction
The choice be yours