It’s all in your hands:
your future and that of the world;
but I don’t give a shit about the world –
the world is now your problem –
I just want you to be safe…
and happy…
and decent…
and…
It’s all in your hands
and it is my job to ensure
that they are clean.
So wash your hands,
please.
We grow up.
We move on.
We leave behind ruined shells that used to contain us.
We think them sad.
We feel justified yet guilty about walking away.
We lock them up.
Truths, formerly cast in stone;
truths, that shaped and confined us;
truths, that gave purpose and comfort,
that lead to pain and murder,
to greatness and gore…
now ephemeral and poignant,
like dead birds on the side of the road –
road-kill.
The world taken apart by the next generation
and put together in a slightly different pattern,
to form a new truth cast in jigsaw,
to await the next player.
The night invades us from the sea.
The fog steals in upon the shore.
It mutes all colours, merges shapes
until horizon disappears
and the enormity of space
envelops mind and muffles soul.
Please…
hold me.
New day begins.
You waken, bleary-eyed.
You see the sheets.
You turn.
You see the ceiling
with stripes of light and dark –
eternal battle,
its pattern etched on retinas from days
and weeks, and years of repeat exposure.
You move inexorably to your cup of coffee,
unknowingly repeating the procedure
of brushing teeth
and putting on the clothes,
glance in the mirror with routine regret
and follow your daily train of thought:
“It could be worse, but then, it could be better…”
But suddenly the dusty mirror surface
distorts the image of your face and room
a little more than usual and you
look once again.
Your train of thought derailed,
you stop and think –
again.
Realisation
hits like a brick –
you see the dusty mask
you built through habit,
layer upon layer
of expectations,
making life routine
and liveable.
But underneath the mask
the horrifying emptiness of space
just barely warmed up by random motion
is looking back with no intent or care.
And then your body fills with acrid joy
of life and thought,
of you, against the odds,
being occasionally self-aware.
Drops of colour like drops of blood,
reminder of passion and death,
a heady concoction full of desperate joy.
The feeling of loss – a textural paradox.
The wetness of tears and snot
and the dryness of facts that provoked them.
The softness of mould and decay
and the hardness of the point when it hits.
The harshness of pain
and the frictionless slide to despair.
The nothingness taking over
and becoming
all.
To Calcifer
You go to the beach and build your castles
with sand and water and the joy of making,
of bringing something new into the world
that makes it yours.
The wind will blow drying sand away
and, grain by grain, the castle will subside,
its turrets sliding, flattening and melting
into the beach.
Your mark upon the world,
your proud monument dissolved forever.
What will remain to you when it is gone?
The joy of building
and, of course, the skill
to build another evanescent castle.
You cannot see yourself – you see reflections
and shadows,
they dance upon the waves,
reflected in the eyes of those watching.
You see reflections in these eyes and say:
“T’is I.
My shadow, my dance.
It is unique.
It’s seen and felt by you.
I am unique and I am here now.”
The eyes will close and the waters still,
the sun will die and take away the light
and shadows will go.
What will remain to you when they are gone?
The joy of dancing
and, of course, the skill
to know who you are.
