You see so much
Brand a soul with the name
Of one who might glance over
Never speak it aloud.
I speak in riddles, in rhythm and rhyme, in the cat’s language. Never a straight answer, for where is the fun in that? Or indeed, in feeling the sharp arrowhead of misinterpretation.
I sit on a shelf of rock overlooking the midnight water, wherein I swing my legs, and watch and wait –
Oh, I have found myself standing before the clock, willing myself to walk through. To find the place where I did not care. Didn’t feel a damn thing, but it’s not so easy anymore.
The night is dear
And dense with feelings we might find
That hold a nest of truth and thought
A worry made, a wrinkled time
In brow, in mind, in darkness meant
For such as we, the walking dead
The Every man and woman, spent
With life and dullness, habits made
From nearly-waking to ourselves
To what we thought was better left
For midnight water, cold and deep
To sink below, and find ourselves
Awake at last (within, without)
A mercy-street, a deeper fall
To find ourselves
To sleep and dream
Dark have been my dreams of late
This is no bad thing.
Only I fear for what might yet go untold
And what may yet break a life apart.
Oh you, feral eye. You primal lust. You eyrie heart.