In the dark, when lights sputter out
From a sudden cut, the gloom holds council
To every sound, making sure each is heard
No matter its stature.
They sidestep the beads
From the torch and natter,
Freedom, freedom
Our potential is realised!
Tag: darkness
Muffled
The dark is an enhancer, a honer
Of senses as the ears try to take over from eyes,
Spanning, assessing rushing car lights in the distance,
The rustling of carrier bags against the wall of an old brick shed.
Laughter and the tinkling of bottles as the local lad gang
Stumble home from the pub.
The quickening of your own pulse as you edge away.
The dark is a muffler, a cloak against reason
Even on the quietest of nights.
Beacon
I took that day and framed it,
up on my wall
as a light to look at
when the darkness tries to eat me up.
I use it as a dream catcher,
replacing nightmares
with wonderful memories
and future promises.
Let down your hair
The tower I am trapped in
is hidden in the darkest of recesses.
There are no ropes for me to let down,
no long locks of hair for me to weave.
If I jump, I will plummet.
I have been shorn, stripped of all that I am.
The world has gone silent.
The world has gone dark.
But then a pulse
beats through the stone walls.
Vibrant as morning light sparkling on the sea’s spray.
I hear it.
Accompanied by a scent I cannot describe,
but akin to that
of spring to a flower.
The darkness smothering me
begins to recede.
My hair is given permission to grow again,
and so I let it.
Finally, I am able
to make my escape.
Berry Scrumping
We gather them nightly,
lip-smacking juices running down my chin.
You look like a vampire
you say, equally so.
We laugh as the moon cackles down at us
and goose pimples rise
up over our exposed skin.
On our way home,
hands weaved together, close,
more support than affection,
you slip your mask back over your face
hiding the pinkish stains from the world.
Hiding our sweet indulgence
even from yourself.
The death of stars
the twilight of the night, voiceless, yet screaming. can you appreciate her delicate embrace; a mother snarling at injustice, retching up her pain as tears streak her face.
The River Guards
A gathering of columns,
decorated with bright, orange blooms
that cascade their scent
on the decayed air,
stand bold against the grey river.
To them,
Satan is just a song
that drifts down on the wind,
but for those who sail,
unwillingly,
beyond the columns’ reach,
the song is more
a delighted warning of what awaits,
hellishly reminiscent
of the jaw-jarring scraping
of human fingernails on a blackboard,
drawn so fiercely across
that the nails are ripped away
from the cuticles.
The song instills anxiety into every
body.
What kind of creature
could possibly make such
a sound?
Treeshallow Musings 