A Silk Lines Box
Special events like
birthdays and holidays.
Merry Christmas, and
here's another year
to celebrate age and
ignorance.
Fifty-two weeks.
A garbage-can clock
- recycling time.
Out with the old
for collection day.
Days into weeks,
weeks into months.
The precious things
are saved
in a hand-made
wooden box.
Lined in crumpled,
purple silk,
like an upmarket
coffin.
A box with a secret.
A grey plastic
monument
with a vinyl house
number on the front,
and the occasional
treasure inside
that I forced myself
to part with.
Dragged through the
gate
and left in the
rain,
on the smooth tarmac
pavement.
Time Passes
Slowly
Time passes slowly
when strength to live is gone.
Perspective gleams
clearly to trick fading light.
A clarity of sight,
with death's blind vision
discerning clarity
from uncertain shadow.
Soon, very soon a
soothing darkness
suffocates in a pall
of insane light.
Yet from this
restful blackness
comes a long
forgotten memory
of an age when life
was precious.
No. It must be a
deception of the dying light
in futile struggle
against the end of life.
The averting of eye
from death's dark gaze.
Here's to life and
all its worthless glory
and here's a call to
circling death.
A terminal halt to
dragging years of pain.
Time passes quickly
when the hour to die draws near.
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The Science of
Abstraction
Reality is a
perceived abstraction,
shifting with time
and mood.
Reality is a diva
soprano,
singing out of tune,
deliberately,
spitefully.
Reality is a prime
number,
Divisible by chaos
and ambiguity.
Reality is dreaming
about being awake,
in a nightmare.
Reality is a
dangerous liar.
It shapes your
thoughts,
it makes you
anxious.
Reality screams in
fury
as you close your
eyes in sleep,
to be alone.
Reality holds you in
your place.
It guides the wings
of dreams,
always downward,
never skyward,
never to rise and
fly away.
Terminal Piece
Slipping, sliding,
creeping under consciousness.
Yet I see you,
working
so busy.
The world looks
small from far away,
cars collide.
Imagination is
stretched to avoid reality.
Suseris of tyres,
amorphous towers.
A land shrouded in
fog.
A light on the
landscape,
home, a beacon.
A radiance in
darkness.
Procedures,
attention to detail.
The accusers
dissemble.
Morality is beyond
them.
Hostility, in a
cheerless place.
A grim celebration
of a lifetime's
work.
In the margin,
a hectic note.
"I'd rather be me,
than you."
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