Misty Hollow

Who really knows what treads there?

There, in the silent hollow,

There in the thicket of great gnarled,

Trees that look like starving beasts,

Bent, bulky, dark and menacing in their eccentricity,

Agreeably ominous in their collectiveness,

Uninviting, yet morbidly gorgeous,

Forever shrouded by a heavy mist,

Hardly a foil for their sinister demeanour,

More a majestic coat spread elegantly,

Incubating their festering emotions,

At their clubbed feet,

A mashed up fusty carpet of dead leaves,

Twigs and insects,

Where other unscrupulous insects burrow and make life,

 Almost in worship,

Of the demon trees towering above them in colossal fortitude,

The little insects hardly count as intruders,

As they are just creepy extensions,

Baseless minions who ogle but threaten nothing,

Everything is a stranger here, everything that is of this place,

Indifferent, haunting,

As is everything that is not of this place,

Judging, envying…

Home Abandoned

Withered flakes of dried skin nestle under the bed,

Far away from any eyes that would behold,

Something, anything that may qualify them,

The wooden floor, dark brown and scratched, stretches,

Cracked and pale, towards the edges of a near empty room,

The paint on the wall aged and no longer what it once was,

Wasted from its original definition, changed, faded,

There’s no mattress on the steel bed, its skeletal frame,

Looking like a bizarre spider’s web hardened in time,

From time, of time, stuck in nowhere’s memory,

Loose hairs, frizzy and mouldy, mingle with the dust,

Becoming one dank jumble in the dark corner of a cupboard,

A tall antique cupboard, shameful in its false pride,

Once the vanity of a lowly carpenter, a husband who laboured,

A single coat hanger still hangs, still with a purpose,

Holding an old green coat, perhaps forgotten, perhaps…

The photo of a face in the inner right breast pocket,

 Betrays the truth, knows something, a blank downward stare,

Emptiness, the room echoes stillness, the silence mocking,

Like the mirror hanging crookedly on the wall,

Reflecting in on itself and the room, but revealing what?

The sallow ceiling sags, dark stains like bruised eyes,

Signs of the tears that have fallen still visible,

Between the frayed edges between wall and ceiling,

Brackish tears squeezed through wrinkled stiff eyelids,

The water pipes still trickle – bleed – although the flow long died,

A lone man’s size eleven shoe lies on its side like a capsized boat,

As if an invisible foot were still in it, the owner laying infinitely asleep,

A door on rusty hinges, with a broken lock… key still inside?

The sole window to the room – closed – let’s in weak light,

Through four misty window panes, filthy on both sides,

Specks of something unflattering, smudges, more dust,

Moss on the sill, even on the inside, where a lone candle poses,

Still stuck in its own melted and hardened wax – in denial,

Wick, as black and dull as frozen oil, uninspired, no light, no life,

Offering nothing to the room except what it has been- maybe,

A smattering of irony, emphasised by the scattered five, maybe six,

Lifeless shells of nondescript insects, creepy-crawlies, pests,

No longer bothering anybody as they lie piously on their backs,

Basking in their own defeated glory in the muffled gloom,

Miniature feet pointing heavenwards, as the foul ceiling leers back,

A discarded rag lies on the sprawling floor, crumbled up, caked stiff,

As if somebody tried gravely, a long time ago,

To wipe away the last sordid residues,

Of an abandoned life…

Gilded Heart

Gilded heart, weapon of art, defying time and space,

Something apart, aligned to an arc, always changing shape,

Whatever is faced, whatever it takes, battling boundless armies,

Bloody chase, endless aches, the sounds of violent harmonies,

Cold faced calmly, defeated hardly, bludgeoning with love,

Blessed harshly, raiding parties, descended from above,

Angels some, demons come, armoured with crooked smiles,

Troublesome, undone, versed in the most savage war styles,

Prolific profiles, proliferating piles, victims stacked like junk,

Exchanging files, exiles, lost where confessions first sunk…

Ocean Bottom

Down a stairway to the depths of a lime and purple sea,

Moving in slow motion sightless and exposed,

Fish fly by thoughts sink deep,

Searching,

Lurking,

Things that don’t sleep,

Circle around the metallic scent they know,

Flapping their black wings as they gawk malevolently at me,

  Bubbles that hold secrets and have no reflections float gingerly,

Like sullen eyes they too watch me close,

Malignant feelings seep,

Lurching,

Disturbing,

The orange mushrooms sway like beasts,

Clouds of fine dust cast a foreboding presence low,

The floor of the wet basement an inverted heaven you cannot see,

Shoals of luminous skeletons swerve through the air with menacing ease,

Looking like the teeth of an invisible creature they glow,

There’s nothing here to keep,

Cursing,

Thirsting,

At the very oblong least,

Looking back up wondering what will follow,

There’s nothing to find and no going back for the life of me…

Death, Destiny & Time

Death buried the hatchet under the winter beaten willow tree,

There in the firm mud cast in soft dancing shadows,

Resigned to a fretting feeling beyond himself,

His own bony hand touched his heart,

Cold forgiveness his intention,

Missed, missing, revealing,

It’s Death’s own killing,

Twisted bark,

Love.

 

Destiny painted a dark night’s sky with stars of enthusing tales,

Birthing fantasy with fine lines invisible to the dull eye,

Full of everything out of the ordinary yet simple,

Alluring in her confusion’s dazzling parameters,

Worthy of a hungry unfulfilled audience,

As unfulfilled as her own desires,

Muted poise the dripping ink,

The world her canvas,

Empty.

 

Time immortal is all they have Death and Destiny if they find,

For that is all there is and it promises dreams of forever,

In a universe of solid untruths and unknown laws,

They could endure like the age of empires,

Or expire like the last exhaled breathe,

As Time whispers its rosy lies,

Lovers pine and hope,

Lost to each other,

Blissful…

 

Finding Ways

 

Finding ways of losing sanity,

Makes me mind the silver lines,

There where there’s no gravity,

There where there are no signs,

I’m falling but still, motionless,

Like that first tear as it forms,

Between worlds and grasping, hopeless,

Still haven’t learned the norms,

Answers drift in the nothingness,

Coming from everywhere and nowhere,

At once mocking with subtleness,

The questions not even there,

Given many names that nobody calls,

I imagine echoes of a self, a shadow,

A murky reflection with no cause,

A lost ghost just here to say hello,

Something there tingles imperceptibly,

Like silence’s inchoate soundling,

Nurtured by the emptiness exceptionally,

It could just be hope floundering,

Sinking in I feel I’m madly in,

In contrast to a world that spins,

Thinking remains my only sin,

Rarely is it the heart that wins…