my meandering mind … … …

Billie Holiday by Banksy

… … … on cycles of trepidation,
on waves of flagellation,

galloping thoughts scatter,
misfiring synapses shatter,

twisted suspension of unbelief,
scorched neurons bereft of relief,

whistling tuneless solitary epics,
soon to be half forgotten relics,

my mind plunges,
my heart lunges,

grasping,
                grappling,
clinging,
               clawing,

scraping the veneer away,
revealing the emptiness of day,

succumbing to slumber,
soothing my meandering mind,

where thoughts no longer plunder,
and where my restless dreams,
are no more torn asunder … … …

A New Dawn …

A New Dawn …

shackled,
the noose tightening,

stealing promises,
of tomorrows yet to be born,

yet still,

hope takes root,

offering solace,
a glimpse,

of a less harsh tomorrow,

as the moon resigns itself,

to the embrace of the coming dawn …

Eternally Optimistic …

Eternally Optimistic …

morning breaks in,
shattering the mute night,

infusing the silence,

with the joyous mishmash of all that that little thing called hope brings,

that no matter how bleak the weeks may seem,

and how desolate the minutes may feel,

every night of emptiness must end,

as with each new dawn,

the sun does its renewing warmth,

to us all, extend …

Who am I?

Who am I?

Seeking absolution, I wander the alleyways of times gone by,

awash with wasted regrets, I crawl into the yawning crevasse,

clutching at straws as merciless time takes to the sky.

Drenched in the reeking stench of wrongs I cannot undo,

I scurry blindly through the maze,

seeking pain to convince myself that today’s reality is true.

Torn to shreds, my tattered mind bobs, weaves and swerves,

my fingers clawing at the jangled knots of my frayed nerves.

When does the moulting of skin cease,

crumpling dreams floating away with each passing breeze.

Shattered hearts lie mortally wounded, unable to mend,

washed-up and washed-out, cast into a palace of indifference,

no enemies to be found here, swallowed up by pity, my perennially faithfull friend.

Who am I,

this shuffling carcass of flesh and bone,

enclosed in a fortress,

a prisoner by choice,

behind my impregnable walls of stone.

Who I am,

matters little as I count the hours of each frigid night,

as my salvation rests,

in the tomorrows yet to come,

while I refuse to surrender to the darkness,

for as long as I can see,

the faintest glimmer,

of hope’s flickering light