The pink whistle wearing thin, they settled on the mauve.
When boxes threatened overload, they cut out carton flags.
Ideas tumbling in hazen rivulets were picked off, one by one,
With shotgun polished, wit so sharpened.
May the treasure hunt of the mind commence!
Still, the crack at the very centre, silent foe, widened each day,
Till they no longer could bear to step forward
And peer at the abyss one wrong word away.
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