Monday, December 1, 2008

Colours.

It's not an original thought
that knock knock knocking
on the door 
inside my head.

Not for me,
anyway.

It's an old thought
hot air and gas
and rings of cold rock
which have turned 
ice
in the waiting.

It's not a new thought
I find
on my step
not a new feat
nor cathartic breath
or a single 
chime
on a silent night...

a silver note
which echoes

a white blossom
dying 
upon the branch.

But I hope 
this thought
which carried upon
a whisper
might one day
reach land.

Knock knock knock
I hear it
as cowering 
behind the door
I panic and close my lips
tie my hands behind my back
and bruise my eyes closed
in spots of coloured dream

tomorrow 
tomorrow
tomorrow

Boom boom boom
the urgent fist
upon the wood
splintering what little chance
I have of invisibility
as the cracks
begin to show
behind the curtains
of my own
personal
comedy.

And 
the 
key 
turns

and 
the 
light
burns

and in it comes
uninvited
but not
unexpected.

It is not an original thought..

well,
not
to me anyway;

that I have lost all wisdom 
amongst the see 
through folly
a stuffed stocking
of sheer nonsense
and regret
that any lesson
I may have learned
or taught
or suffered for
or laughed at
or spat in the face of
or drank in spite of
or listened with passion to
or sang in the rain of
or smiled in the pain of
has
long
since left
me
a blank canvas
leaned
against
a wall
forgotten 
by the inner artist
who may or may not
rediscover me
covered in dust
and in old age
begin again
to paint me
a master's
piece.



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