Sole guide and friend when I am
lost on country lanes. It’s night
and the loss is sometimes straightforward,
the strands of complication get plaited in
colouring warmth in where none was scheduled.
I imagine torches on scenes of small disasters.
Someone we love is always the shape of the missing
the gap unfilled
a careful step on the cracks in the pavement –
it never hurt anyone
to be doubly sure but
who’s to say superstition hasn’t cursed the world?
There can’t be one heart for hatred
and one for love. We only have one…
and it stains easily.
Image: prozac1 / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
He comes in cloaks of sweeping darkness,
just when and where we cannot know,
a friendless face, plaintive aside,
unseeing eyes and lips unsmiled.
But I digress…
He reckons the skill will maim or kill.
He reckons he knows to avoid the throes.
He reckons and calculates, measures and frowns.
Silent charades, we most ruefully hand over:
beauty and incubus both.
He pimps up the memories with medals or stories.
He offers horizons and vistas long spent.
Abhor him! Fall not for his honeyed deception!
The mould is still soft, all possibilities there,
you can deflect those pinpricks, each perfect phrase dissecting.
You know he’s not playing fair.
when all that remains
is cracked shell