(#46) Trauma Response From The Restricted Past

Flash tundra, emerge, my knees buckle,
Losing balance, my heart's veins tangle up,
The mind trips over the frost covered plains
The gravity within is no longer stable.

The ground shakes violently,
The snow cuts deep into the skin
The vertebrate is stung by frostbites-
Cripples the entire structure of the

Host, those words are kryptonite
They are poison, they are glass shards
They are the ones that swallow colour
From the world, they are tormenting

The ground I walk are laden with trip mines,
My curious mind will take my feet to the
Kill, my eyes did not scan the ground, not until
I heard the wire tug, the pin's chime, the clicks.

If only the shards and blast were fatal-
They are not, they penetrate deep within the heart,
And mind, and with every beat, it slices me alive-
Flesh like chilled meat strips at the butchers'.

I cannot see it any more, the emergency bell
Sounds an alarm through the night
That no one will hear, for the
Entire dimension has frozen over.

Amongst the crystals and snow,
The fear, the black and the grey,
Stands I who cries out into the bitter gale,
"I loved you so much, I smiled as you murdered me."

(#45) The End In Mind

There is this narrow path
On a large sheet of white paper.
The paper has an unknown dimension.
Drawings will appear on it.

Seventeen strokes for time
The path winds about the problems-
Eighteen walls, every mason builds
Two each, hard sand and stone, just to

Injure me when I pass between them.
One traveler, hundreds of exchanges
Two with the black market, the devil
Three with the friend's friend,

Both of which never I understood-
Though one clearly was intimidating
And the other, completely undirected.
My pockets are spent empty and in my collection,

All that is unsatisfactory. In fact,
Nobody knows why the paper exists
Nor who holds the pen sketching aimlessly on it.
We will just keep walking, drifting,

Creating thoughts to justify
The reasons for the useless journey,
Trying to use determinism as an excuse to
Scribble your name all over the floor you walk-

Like an analgesic, in hope that people will know the
Letters to carve on the tombstone when
You, the departed unknown individual
Perish from the inevitable disease of death.

I refuse to veil the truth
That we exist to expire.

(#44) Desperation

Solemn chambers of
Procrastination, over-confidence
Seeping from every pore on your skin
The sands of time tip the scales of possibility.

This cannot breed-
The virus, when unchecked gradually
Leads the host to retardation, and
When goals close in, the soul

Remains unprepared,
Panic overtakes the mind, a brooding
Concoction of frustration, stress and confusion.
That demon will make you drink it.

The days past were let slip,
The jail guard with no vigilance nor
Discipline, the hours escaped free
From the bars of relaxed fingers and the body.

No more, no more will the rain clouds
Drench my clothes further-
They are already soaked through, regretful.
I can pray for the lightning to strike me hard

To teach me a lesson,
I could run hard for the week ahead
And catch the falling pieces of hope
To render some form of salvation for myself.

(#43) A Farm Day

The first burst of light emerges over the
Horizon of the yellow burning sun.
The day breaks, the mist lifts from
The sweet smelling grass down the hill-
Pulling the cosy dew blanket off every sunrise.

The square gold patchwork, like gold-leaf
Stands out brightly on the quilt of Mother's garden
The cleared out land burns a rust shade as the dust
Pulls west into the haystack with the white clouds overhead.
The cock on the wind vane swings with the changing drafts.

He will have a short breakfast, just barely enough-
For he needs to be out early in the sun
To take the cash cows to the fields,
To get his golden eggs from the coop,
To have his three bags full.

The boy will tend to the sheep and cows,
The dog maintains the order as he
Ponders in the meadows-
The days get colder and colder
Father must begin preparing hay.

The tractor's engine guns to a quiet by sunset,
The great orange hue floods over the
Windmill, roofs and dirt path. The cottage lights
Create shadows on the ground
As dinner is served, well earned.

By the strike of nine, the town gathers.
The animals rest in their stalls, fences latched.
The men play cards by the fire, they talk of harvest.
The women tell the children stories while sewing,
The youths, chasing skirts and charisma in the night.

Finally, as bed calls for night's tranquility,
At the faintly-red barn roof where the
Pale white moonlight feeds on the
Colours of the Earth from our eyes
The day is not over for one-

The watchful farmer with hunting gun,
Oil lamp, a vigil sentry, prowling about
Peering the night fog for wolf or crook-
He will not let his efforts go to waste, even
The scarecrow haunts his tired, suspicious mind.


For Joy, who wants this done so badly,
I hope your happiness surpasses my days of effort on this.