.
… and the look of fear
co-existing with pain
     on a contorted face
that knows
it is in mortal difficulty,
as ragged fingers

     clutch,

          clutch,

at a fire they cannot reach,
ripping agonies react,
     to an enforced cardiac episode,
as blackness closes in
gravity heaves its hardest,
but the fall is fake,
a red herring in the event,
     and the weight of the world

presses down, searching,
retracts
waiting,
presses down, searching,
retracts
waiting,

as breath is given freedom
in exhalation to the light,
     that slowly rolls back
the pitch hue of the void,
returning back images,
feeling,
a new belief,

          and the fire inside quietens,

                    and the fire inside quietens,

to the intense glow
     of a burnt aching heart.



© Pagan Paul (2018)

Working in an office with a lot of girls mainly
Suddenly it was that time of year again... Christmas
And the Office party it was looming
As I went toward the pub where we were having our gathering I was feeling nicely laid back and relaxed
Primarily because I'd just been to another pub beforehand and had a few quick scoops/ drinks
Now I was bolstered, all pumped up, I was like a Boxer ready to step into the Ring.

Our pub it was festooned with decorations, lovely colours and glittery things
They were hanging out of the ceiling and stuck on every wall
Above our table a big jovial Santa Claus
Looked down, beaming at us all
As I sat down one of the girls asked rather suspiciously "Where were you?"
Holding up my alibi, a little shopping bag with some items in it
I told her, lying beautifully of course,  that I had to go down the shop to get some things.
As I sat there I noticed the atmosphere was a bit subdued, people weren't talking much
I said to myself, this... this won't do
So I took it on myself to take the lead, I'd be the one to spread some Christmas cheer
So suddenly I blurted out "Wh..Wh..What does Santa say... after drinking a bottle of *** ?
"I don't know" they all said, "what does he say".
I paused a moment for dramatic effect...then I hit them with the punchline...he says "Yo ** **!"
They all looked at me blankly
You don't get it, Yo ** ** and a bottle of *** is the famous pirate song from Treasure Island
Santa's catchphrase is **!**!**!
He drinks the *** and suddenly it's Yo! **!**! (Jeez I thought, I got to explain my own jokes)
Still there not impressed, one shakes her head, another raises her eyes to the heavens, another comments "A silly joke"
But really I don't care, I say to them
I suppose you don't want to hear my Snowman joke then
"O Go on", they say, "get it over with"
It's a bit risque I warned them
What do you call a Snowman... standing outside the window of a Brothel ?
"A hot Frosty", someone said
No! ... The Abominable Snowman.

I say to myself, well at least I tried, I made an effort
I done my bit, now I can sit here quietly for the rest of the evening
Some of the girls have now started to talk amongst themselves
One girl sitting right next to me who I hadn't spoken to in awhile
She suddenly inquires after my wellbeing, she asks"How are you?"
I tell her O! You know me, I'm just... just hanging on in there, yea! just hanging on to the Ledge of Life by my fingertips trying not to look down at all the crocodiles circling below
"Things aren't that bad, are they?" she says a little concerned
I smile and say Well I might be exaggerating there... a little bit
She smiles and offers "You're a real Drama Queen".

Suddenly one of the girls announces that she's done an evening course during the Autumn, she's done Bellydancing of all things
I thought we'll have to get her to give us a demonstration later on (but not before dinner LoL)
This girl then starts asking everyone did they do any courses and what their hobbies were
Finally she comes to me and I say Well I've been making some music on this little keyboard I have, yea! I've been playing...I've been playing around with my *****
(this gets some laughs)
I go on, Actually I've been writing a song
"Writing a Song!" says one of the girls really impressed, "we know you write stories, now you're writing songs, my! you are talented.  What's it about, your song ?"
I tell her it's about a girlfriend whose... well she's a bit of a Goldigger,
Then I smile, I have a great title for it, I call it (I pause for a moment then I say proudly), I call it...Octopus of Love.
"Octopus of Love!!" says one of them dismissively, "what kind of name is that for a song.  There should be a Society for Prevention of Cruelty to songs"
I ignore her and then suddenly launch into a verse of the song

     She said she was a dove
     But she's my Octopus of Love
     A hundred hands in search of one thing
          only
     Yea! My wallet, my Pride and glory.

     When she whispers in my ear
     Her fingertips they tiptoe across my rear
           and into my back pocket  
      O! She's my Octopus of Love
      She"s not at all what I dreamed of.

     When I hold her in my arms
     She sets off all my alarms
     She tells these great big whopping lies
     Man! She's got a finger in all my pies.

    She said she loves me dearly
    Visiting the most expensive shops
    Buying the most expensive gear
    I say, could you not make it more cheaply instead,

  O! She's got me in her grasp
   Her tentacles they hold me fast
   Then she asks what's all the fuss
   And she's so innocent looking
   Man! She's a lovely Octopus.

"I wouldn't be giving up the day job just yet" says one of the girls,
"That's funny" says another
Then someone ups and says "Tell us another one of your little stories",
"A good one, this time!" adds another
"Yea! A good one! We need a good laugh" says another,
I feel a bit slighted by this for some reason, the way they say it, their attitude
It's like their making light of my Art, my labours, my great works
Like their just bits of fluff for their titillation
So suddenly my mood it darkens and my voice it takes on this ominous ring and then I say a little threateningly
"So you want to hear a good one, do you!"
With this I smile and then say menacingly"I'll give you a good one"
Then I look at them slowly one by one
And it's almost like I've gone into this trance state, switched into ghostly mode
A distant remote look comes into my eyes
It's like I'm looking through them into the far distance somewhere...  
And then suddenly I intone real solemn like and with great gravitas
"The Great American Novel!"

"What's that?", asks one of the girls
Now most of the girls are married Moms with kids
They wouldn't have gone to college, they would have gone straight into work after school
So they probably wouldn't have known about English literature and  the Classics and all that high brow kind of stuff
Their only exposure to literature would probably be the so called Chicklit books down their local supermarket,
So I say to them 'You never heard of the Great American Novel'
"No!" says one of the girls, "what is it?"
Well, I start to explain, it's like the Holy Grail for all writers, novel writers anyway
How can I explain...how can I put it... The Great American Novel...
It's like this amazing fantastic legendary mythical beast of such great beauty and magnificence
That roams free and unfettered on the literary plains of a writer's imagination,
Many an author on his death bed admits, "I seen it once, I had it in my sights...had it in my grasp but I let it get away". They then turn their heads away and cry bitter tears of regret...
Or...or it's like... it's like this Great Mountain
that's no one's ever been able to climb
It stands there defiantly, supreme in its isolation, it's peak glistening in the sunlight or shimmering in the moonlight
Unreachable, unattainable... unconquerable
(I'm really on a roll now, I'm waxing lyrical and there's no stopping me)
The Great American Novel...it's like... y'know it's like that old fairytale, what was it called
Was it Snow White. No! Snow White had the dwarves in it
What was the other one?
One of the girls whose always been a bit negative, she suddenly says rather unhelpfully
"It wasn't Pinocchio was it?"
Of course I get her reference, when Pinocchio would tell tall tales his nose would grow longer
Then I point to her and say rather surprisingly "That's it!! Sleeping Beauty!" Remember Sleeping Beauty
The King and Queen have a beautiful baby daughter
At the christening all the good fairies come and bestow Blessings on the child
She'll be the most beautiful
She'll be warm and kind and generous
She'll have a lovely heart
She'll be so wise and so artistic...
Then suddenly who should arrive but the Wicked Fairy
She wasn't even invited to the ceremony and she's really angry
She storms into the Palace right up to the child
Then she says "When this Beauty, this Child grows up she will have an accident"
It's like The Great American Novel is the Beauty, the Child
And it's like she's saying "This Beauty no one shall have, no one shall ever write The Great American Novel"
And of course, when the child grows up she's so wonderful and so amazing
But then she has this accident and falls into this strange deep deep sleep
And everyone in the castle too, they also fall asleep,
And suddenly this big thicket of dense thorns springs up around the castle so no one can enter it
Many a brave young man having heard of the Great Beauty behind the Wall of Thorns
They valiantly try to get to her but are invariably driven back by the thorns
Alas! They fail and gradually the story of the Great Beauty passes into legend.....
That is till one day, a Knight appears, a Knight so noble and pure of heart
The moment the blade of his sword touches the Wall of Thorns
A path opens up right through the thorns leading to the castle
He finds everybody there fast asleep
He climbs the Tower and finds in her chamber this incredible Beauty sleeping
He is so taken with her that he must kiss her on her lips
In that moment her eyes they open and she smiles a radiant smile. And the whole world awakens again, comes alive.

I look around at all the girls, their all a bit spellbound by my story (at least I like to think)
I go on 'It's like I was walking in my mind one evening, seeking some inspiration
And then I just turn a corner and there he is, in all his glorious splendour
Remember your Greek myths, the fabulous white winged horse... Pegasus... this beautiful mythical beast
Just there drinking at a pool right in front of me,
So quietly I sneak up on him and then suddenly I jump up onto his back
He rears up and then spreads his mighty wings
And starts to rise way above the earth
My eyes they are suddenly opened, and I see what I had not seen before....
I look at the girls but then just as before, a strange dark look comes over my face and I say
" I'm really afraid but I think, I think I've done it
I think I've nailed it
Yea! ... I think I've written The Great American Novel.

I go on 'Yknow  whenever a new book comes out the Critics, they all wonder
Will this be the One, will this at last be The Great American Novel
Of course, their always disappointed, the candidates they all fall short
It was a good try but...but not quite
A valiant effort, maybe next time
In the Critics Room one of them will be given my book to read
Slowly as he reads, his eyes will grow wider
And his jaw will start to drop in awe
When he finishes he'll sit there in his chair stunned, almost like he's been shellshocked
Then he'll rise unsteadily  with his finger pointing at the book
He'll be stuttering and stammering
"What's wrong!", people will inquire of him
He'll look at them in a mad crazy way
"My eyes... my eyes they've seen it" he'll say
"Seen what?" they'll ask
"It...it... it's The Great American Novel.
They'll all stand up and gather around the Book
Suddenly someone will grab a pair of binoculars and look up at The Great, the Holy Mountain
And there on the top, on the summit
There'll be a lone figure standing with his little Irish flag
"Truly he is the One", they'll say, "and a feckin' Irishman, wouldn't you know".

"So what's it about then", asks one of the girls interrupting my flow
What!', I say
"The Novel! What's it about"
I look at her and then I smile and say rather mysteriously 'Well, that's another story isn't it'.
"Wait a minute", says the girl whose usually very negative, "so the valiant Knight with the noble heart, that's supposed to be you is it ?
I raise my hands innocently as if to say what can I do
"O! I think I'm going to be sick", she says. Then she continues "Where did you get the time to write a Novel anyway. All the time we thought you were working you were probably just there daydreaming over in the corner".
"It's not very long", I say to her "my story".
"How long is it ?", she asks curiously
"Actually it's only about ten or eleven pages".
"What! Ten or eleven pages!!!", she says jumping on this with exaggerated disgust, "that's not a Novel, it might be a short story but it's certainly not a Novel. For it to be a Novel it has to be several hundred pages long ".
I tell her But 'I didn't need a few hundred pages just ten or eleven was enough, it's all there, the whole thing'.
"But it's not a Novel", she maintains
I answer, it's the spirit of the thing that matters, the Spirit!
She then gathers herself and I can feel an offensive coming
"I don't want to rain on your Parade", she begins, "but One you're not American, Two it's not even a Novel, and Third if it's anything like your song I for one won't be holding my breath".
I look at her a bit crestfallen and then I say
"You really like to burst my balloon don't you" , then I say, "I'm reminded of the classic lines of W.B.Yeats the great Irish poet
And then I declaim theatrically
"And Great Art... beaten down".

Anyway now the spotlight moves away from me, the girls start talking among themselves
"Let's leave him to his delusions", one says and now our meals are starting to arrive, I'm forgotten about for awhile.
For some reason the word "Parade' has stuck in my mind
And the pub has suddenly grown more boisterous, some people are singing and blowing whistles (those paper things that roll out and then roll back in again) their throwing streamers and confetti about
Suddenly I'm reminded of those old ticker tape parades they used to have over in New York when they'd be celebrating something or someone
All the faces looking out the windows of the skyscrapers and all the streamers cascading down, and the cheering crowds
And up on a big Podium there standing, the President himself.
I look up at the wall at Santa Claus smiling back at me
And I say to myself "Hello Mister President"
I can see him welcoming me up onto the podium, then with his hands he quietens the  crowds... and then...then he speaks
"Fellow Americans, we've waited a long time for this day
Many thought I'm sure that it would never come but some...some still dared to believe Yea! That one day a man would appear and that a Book would be born"
(holding up the Book) I give you the Book
It may be a slim volume
But don't let that fool you
Sometimes good things come in small packages...
Yes! I give you the Book,
The Great American Novel!!!
And I give you... the Man (motioning to me)
"He told it like no one else could, he said it like no one else could say it
Let the bells ring out across the land, in every city and town...in celebration"
So sitting there I raised my glass to Santa Claus smiling on the wall
And said quietly and secretly to myself
"Here's to you Mr. President, Merry Christmas!

Every time my father is late from the front line
Sickness strikes my mother
and I tour with her the hospitals of Najaf.

I write to him ‘come back to us now,
Make your sergeant read my words: I am about to die’.

He returns my letter, laughing:
‘We are the amusement of the blindman’.

Oh, you River of Jasim, you tore my years
Between my father’s assumed victories
And my mother’s wishes in the emergency room;

They used to plant hope in her mind
By sticking on the glass door,
Two notices confirming: (awaiting death certificate).

Her heart ages so fast
And I ***** from hearing the chants.
Every time the presenter says ‘Victory is on the horizon’,

My grandmothers’ eyes rise to the ceiling -
She hides a mocking smile.

With rage I scream at the screen ‘no victory’s coming’.

She whispers: ‘god is generous’.
‘You sound like my father when I asked for new toys’.
She quietens and we contend,
Awaiting his return before a new battle,
Fearing that a last fight may end the life of a dove.

She's real smoochy
She's my hoochie *******
She's my sweet little Koala Bear.

She's so cute
And she's a total hoot
Keeps me smiling throughout the day.

Nice and cuddly
She's bubbly wubbly
Soothes all my troubles away.

She's kinda kooky
She's my nooky wooky
My little Koo Koo Koala Bear.

She climbs my tree
And she talks to me
Ever so softly.

She holds me tight
Through the darkest night
Quietens me when I'm afraid.

Don't you ever leave me, will ya
My lovely little sweet
My sweet little lovely, Koala Bear.

Never to have felt the wind of change upon your flesh,
to dazzle and dance on the precipice.
One jolt after another, character un-built..

Rarely to have left the bed unmade,
After nights of raw abandon, to gaze in a lover or a strangers eyes.
To let go and curse the parachute.

Teeth not brushed fail to bring forth the doom that was promised.
Un-cut grass does not shield waiting monsters.
Chipped paint and failing wallpaper tell a story.

A brush with the law wont quell the gossip mongers.
Alas, to be so safe quietens no mouth.
For they will talk anyhow and the sun will still rise, regardless.

my mind never stops,
a whirlwind of emotions rage inside me
wave after wave
the slam into me without notice
I’m speechless

my mind never stills,
unwanted thoughts consume me
sparks ignite new ideas
overthinking everything
I’m on overdrive

my mind never quietens,
songs blast constantly
reverberating, resounding within me
countless stories and jokes and memories
I’m tired

my mind won’t relax
and I’m trying
but I’m tired

Like you,
But with no filters around your mouth
Not stopping midway when you reach out for me.
Like you but before my demons got to you.

Like me,
But with my heart not swelling and crashing,
My lungs not elating with hope and deflating with reality
Like me, but before i fell in love with you.

Like you,
But with strong hands that feel like fluttering of butterflies against my skin when they touch me
Your footsteps sometimes syncing with my heart beats,
Like you but when I could read your eyes the way I read poetry, never getting enough of either

Like me,
But me talking to you, rather than bringing up your name as the room quietens and my friends look anywhere but in my eyes
Like me but when I had you, instead of these metaphors, and hyperbole, smilies and allegories, arranged in the shape of you so I could still have some souvenir of you.
Like me but with our names that you scratched on my back not faded.

Like you,
But not thinking that you have had me figured out now, so you could casually go down your library and put me on a shelf
Like you
But not finding me to be a waste of breath.
Like you but when you thought my light was worth the long period of eclipses it comes with

Like me,
But going on walks with you to the beach
Instead of me going on and on trying to kiss the horizon or the bottom of the sea,
It depends on the mood actually.
Like me but happy.

Like us,
But when we knew exactly who it was that we wanted us to be,
Instead of clinging to whatever vague ideas our mind comes up,
Doing anything to distract us from the aching hollow heart we carved ourselves out of

As soon as the forest surrounds me I feel it;
Enclosed, safe.
The softness of nature envelops me.
The sound of my mind quietens
And the forest noises come alive.
Birds calling, droplets of rain pattering on leaves,
a click or a shuffle.
Leaves fall like snow
Softening the heart of the weary.
I dare not move
But with the forest exhale
And acknowledge myself as one amongst the trees.
Would that I could sink my limbs into the earth
And join this silent gathering
Change with the seasons
And know my place on the Earth.

It's 1939 and ******'s on the rise,
He's invaded Poland and fancies another prize,
In the way is Churchill, and the Armies of the Allies,
He marches straight through Europe, while they plan his demise,

Each night the siren sounds and our curtains are all closed,
Although we are concealed, I've never felt so exposed,
I live in this war-torn land, where bombs fall from the sky,
When they fall on the houses, I hear the children cry,

When the bombs have fallen, and the hell is over,
I watch the Luftwaffe fly away, over the white cliffs of Dover,
They come each night and I feel their deadly wrath,
What if I my house is on their next bombing path,

Every time I see them coming, I run and I do hide,
But one night I do not make it, and for my children I do cry,
For a bomb has fallen on my house, and taken away my life,
That bomb it took away all that I cherish and left me filled with strife,

I have now decided to join and fight, for all that I have lost,
I have chosen to take up arms, and fight no matter what the cost,
Now I am overseas, fighting finally for a cause which is my own,
All of the death and blood around me, chills me to the bone,

I survive, day in, day out, all night long for months on end,
I do not have long left to live, I will soon be god's friend,
As the battlefield quietens down and all my friends are dead,
I realise that I'm in hell, and never shall return.

I remember I was dead..


The moment is finally here
My prayers have been answered,I've eternally dreamt
That here with peace I rest
and all is well.

My soul quietens from the rest it has been given since it's been ever oppressed.
Daily bricks are thrown my way.
Each day obstacles accumulate on my path.
A sigh is all that's spelled from me since these acts signify a cliché.


But tonight here on my bed I rest.
Peace will be regained as I pray for my subconscious to ascend to a serene place. Here, I am temporary dead.


Goodnight.

You snake around me.
I never see you coming.

Appearing in the tall grasses of people,
and disappearing like vapour,
You are not a rattlesnake, aren't you?
Your hushed strikes do not startle me anymore.
I am too numb by the hustle and bustle of the crowd.
I am too tired of this struggle to fade away.

Are you going to sink your fangs into me?
I should never have turn my back on a viper.
Your lethal venom surely brought on this illness that I am unable to heal.
This mental disease entered my bloodstream,
traveling so unobtrusively that I have not notice it take complete control over me.
You wreck me up inside
immobilising me in every conversation
every question that demands an answer I cannot give.
Is there an antidote to end this slow sweet torture?

Are you going to hide behind a corner?
Your forked tongue can sense my fear as i draw nearer.
I do not want to find myself falling into your embrace.
You will entwine me further into yourself,
Tangle me in your web of fear, anxiety and self destruction.
And even as you crush and constrict harder,
As I suffocate slowly and my lips turn blue,
I cannot find my voice.
I cannot ask for help.

Anxiety is like a python after all.
Its steals your breath and quietens your heart before swallowing you whole.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Soundlessly.

She’s at a loss.
Her voice quietens, weakens.
She’s not herself.
She’s been transformed, absorbed into someone else.

She’s a fishing boat in a stormy sea.
Stormy then calm.
Stormy then calm.
Her mind is a whirlwind of easy offences.
She is a pit of jealousy;
a lustful late-teen.
Her mind is a television
broadcasting her desires:
Eight red lines upon a pale back,
Shoulders indented with two curved rows
from clenched teeth.
Morse code embossed on sweet flesh.
Love bites around *******,
on thighs, on buttocks.

A fictional programme.

Turn fiction into non-fiction
and rescue her mind; a mere sailor.
Reach the shore and rescue her.
Find her again.
Find her voice, her strength.
Evaporate the stormy sea and leave her,
wholly herself.

betrayed in a dream I see an inner conflict unresolved
do they ever resolve completely an on going battle
quietens for awhile after death stalked a little closer
than usual leaving the discomfort of the effort to survive
but cleaner now more free to face the oncoming tragedies of life
to be more accepting that joy never really leaves us

As we gather round
crackling fire
All talk hushes
quietens
And finally dies.
In this world you say as little
as possible
While the doors of perception
are closed
opened wide
and deliberately
left
ajar....

When first it comes it roars in your heart,
it dances through you and no
mighty deed may hold it back,
it sings a song of joy that lights the dark corners of your soul that adds new rhythms to your sombre life.
But when it goes it leaves a discord in you, life's beat is off and chords are missing
It's harmonies fade but a tune still remains, you learn new song's but the first melody stays true, it quietens but never goes away and in the darkness of the night when new tunes don't have the hook that you once knew you remember that roar and hope to dance to that song again

Where does  the smoke go
                                                                when it’s done drifting ?
Where does the music go
                                                                when it’s been played ?
Where does the wind go
                                                                when the storm quietens ?
Where does the scent go
                                                                when petals fade?


Where does the taste go
                                                                when food is swallowed ?
Where does the peal go
                                                                when bells have been rung ?
Where does the moonlight go
                                                                when the sun rises ?
Where does the song go
                                                                when it’s been sung?


Where does the rainbow go
                                                                 when you stop staring ?
Where does the morning star go
                                                                 when it’s night ?
Where does the colour go
                                                                 when the night’s fallen ?
Where does the darkness go
                                                                 when the sky’s bright?





Where does the lust go
                                                                 when it’s been sated?
Where does the youth go
                                                                 when folk grow old?
Where does the wave go
                                                                 when ocean levels ?
Where does the story go
                                                                 when it’s been told?


Where does the memory go
                                                                 when it’s forgotten?
Where does the prayer go
                                                                 when it’s been said?
Where does the love go
                                                                 when it’s rejected?
Where does the spirit go
                                                                 when it’s not fed?


Where does the thirst go
                                                                 when it’s been quench-ed ?
Where does the silence go        
                                                                 when  the talk starts?
Where does the footprint go
                                                                  when wind’s passed over?
Where does the life go
                                                                  when soul departs?




Where does the truth go
                                                                 when lies are accepted ?
Where does  the vow go          
                                                                 when marriage is dead?
Where does the thought go
                                                                 when it’s not written ?
Where does the poem go
                                                                 when it’s not read ?



Trish Lambert
2010

All night long
Below a darkening sky
Comes a howling wind
Drowning other sounds
Each gust stronger than the one before
Finally the rain begins to pour
Growling thunder in between
Heaven's anger seeming
Insatiable as lightning,
Jagged, burns
Knifelike slashes in the sky
Lighting up the darkened
Midnight hour
No end in sight
Only a brief occasional silence
Passing through
Quickly come and gone
Reverberating
Sound
Throughout the night
Until morning is slightly
Visible over the horizon
Wind quietens, rain becomes a drizzle
X-it the tempest as the sun's
Yellow rays bring the morning to lavender
Zinnias and sky-blue Forget-me-nots

All talk hushes, quietens,
and finally,
dies.
We all tune into...

nothing but,
war, and its
proclamation,
Of death.


false
lies.

the floor digging into curves
i did not know by body had
with my body curving absurd
my hands full of realization
that my shapes are awry
off-the-mark

my legs sit ahead
lax tired filled with exhaustion
of not enough miles walked
enough sitting around day
to day and working on
support of my sitting body

i feel sorry to have taken
away their purpose
a life should be better
lived but it's owner
weary and filled
with excuses

works day and night
on sitting or sleeping
not doing much but
just a floater
focused on
a sky always cloudy

a pathetic soul
one of many
just a sad sad soul
in its generalizing
with the many
and the soul has no
shine

but hit escape
life has its
own rhythm and groove

but the groove that once
made itself known
seeps into the silence of
trees, nights, stars
rarely seen

words barely written
unartistic
unassuming
arbitrary
uninteresting
invisible

­screaming heart
quietens under
burden of
weightlessness
of existence

my head is going to burst.
the thoughts are too crowded in my head.

the storm brews,
it shifts and turns,
rearing it's ugly head.
but i'm the only one who sees it.

my mouth is so bitter
the dryness of my throat slowly engulfing me.

the storm quietens,
slowly sinking to the floor,
not moving.
a corpse of what once lived.

my reprieve comes in intervals
the paranoia entrapping me till change makes it's way.

Amid the darkness
In the midst of gloom and misery
She is contemplating life’s essence.

Between Light and dark,
Are any of them wholly good or bad?

There’s the darkness that frightens
There’s darkness that calms
It also quietens
All those fears of distress which we've

In those long nights of trepidation
By savoring our isolation
It exposes us to our own bygone reflection

likewise, light brings joy by illuminating the world
In the form of fire, extinguish everything as well
With an unmatchable wrath
It silences everything, shutting all of life in a split flash.

The world always stays in balance
Both light and dark coexist in congruence

It’s us who manipulate.
They become, what the bearers always wishes it to be

No one but night with tears on her face
Watches besides her
Witnessing a world filled with forever despair

Life burn, souls get humiliated on its funeral pyre
Ashes intensified the darkest desires
She immersed herself in fire to let the light grow
Fire doesn’t hurt her anymore
She is blessed.

Deep in the dark, the gleam would fight the endless night.

Letters by letter by letter
These thoughts and emotions
Pour from my head to my heart,
Through my veins.

They reach my fingertips,
Tapping eagerly on the side of my laptop
But then I hear it,
What if it sounds stupid? What if no one cares what you have to say?

Her voice, no, my voice,
Doubtful, hurting, scared.
But the thoughts keep pumping
my fingers violently throb

It all happens like a blur,
I have to get these words out
Or everything will explode
Into a dizzy array of sparkling light

So I type and I type and I type
I type till my fingers go numb
And my eyes are glazed over
And it doesn't hurt to breathe anymore.

And despite her many warnings,
When I click 'save',
She quietens down
And anxiety doesn't hold me back.

All talk hushes, quietens, and finally dies.
The silence of love beats loudly, a silent King
forever brooding over the children;
children of the spirit, and of the dust.

the wind hushes, quietens, and finally dies
timeless stillness each blade enters the mind
sea flat calm, a blue walkway to neighbour isle
these moments forever indelible, love fest,
love fest in the blinking of an eye.

"Oh dearie, we're in trouble, aren't we?"
She nods silently.
"Falling for someone so hard that you can't even hate them, not even when they let you down."
She trembles.
"And yet,  they love you enough to destroy you."
She pauses.
"Maybe it's not love at all. Maybe it's the attachment to someone who has the same insecurities as you. Maybe it's when you smell their cologne, when they hold you tight and your mind finally quietens down. Maybe it's the fear of being so dependent, of handing over your control to a reckless heart, and God the things you'd put yourself through just so they don't get hurt, even if you do. Maybe it's only love when the blood that spills out of you spells their name."
**A tear escapes.

find me where no padlock locks
or gated community cowers

find me like air over water
on chilled wings of the dawn

find me where the Sun is friend
and I a friend to all

find me where the Holy Spirit
quietens the mind body and soul.

The soft wind blows
quietens a thin
layer of grass
there's two parallel lines of footsteps
in the sand
the soft wind blows
long hair, a transparent kite line
and a blue sky
the soft wind blows
healing the chaos of branches
leveling the water ripples
leaving a trace of bright
moonlight.

She learned from a young age that
Rage,
Anger,
Defiance,
Meant nothing.
Not to her
Nor to others.
So she kept silent
As silent as the sun can
When she's raging in the vacuum of space.
Her eyes would ***** with tears
And her jaw would clench in frustration.
But she'd rather stare into hell and cut off her tongue before it meant anything.
She is a patient woman they say,
She is a proper lady
She is as passive as a flower
And as kind as sunlight after a thunderstorm.
She is a balm to the suffering and to the evil.
She is God's child.
But
I have thorns
I can burn you
I can drown you

She has a child’s temper
In a woman’s body.
She weeps alone,
Rages alone,
Starves alone.
She quietens her struggle
And pretends she is only marble.
Grief is an option
And
Anger is a choice.
She chooses neither
So she feels nothing.

How she would like to
Yell and scream!
How she would like to hurt,
To let go
And hold on selfishly to her happiness.
Freedom is an option too.
She does not choose it.

Grief is good, O naked shivering—
Grief, the last full blossom
In the rich, rich ***** of spring
Laden with hues, their gentle smother;
Reap it they and morph a shrine:
Grief, the violent girl of a silenced mother.
Grief, the first decay of decay old
As the sky beats down and down,
Burning all green to gold.
Grief, the cunning god
That quietens, and teaches the art of scream.
Grief then, the ripe fruit’s bitter-sweet cold.
The first fall that a thousand follow,
Crystal chambers of the first frail flake.
Then, hues that all white swallow.

On, on swirls the necklace.
A countless tyrant beads
Still, countless laced with grace
True, shrines tumble, and daughters weep,
Falls then burn, and summers melt
Thirst and ash into fruit do seep.
This despairing tickle in so deep—
But suns to snow and sweet still on subside
Own thus the jewel, and, hush, be off to sleep.
Oh, in here a faceless sky long stubborn stood;
Years blank, till snow and sun lit up from soot

O naked shivering, grief is good.