I’ve walked the pathways a thousand times,
a thousand steps for a thousand moments,
and yet I am startled by the glow of a shrine
that has only appeared now I’ve stopped searching.
writer, book reviewer, daydreamer
I’ve walked the pathways a thousand times,
a thousand steps for a thousand moments,
and yet I am startled by the glow of a shrine
that has only appeared now I’ve stopped searching.
How do you weave a web
if you don’t have a corner to claim as your own?
How do you spin the spindle
if there is no wheel or thread to be found?
How do you sing a note
when your voice is too worn to be heard?
And when do you have a chance
to raise your hand
when the forest is already crowded?
Consider life as an ant.
What would you see of the world then?
Would you take more notice of the dry, parched grass
that has no bend, just blockades your path and leaves you no shade
from the unexpected sun?
See the browning leaves that may act as boats in those rare puddles,
safe passage across
to that place where
the sweat left by humans as they lie on the ground
permeates into the earth;
they try to find peace in a life that attempts to prevent it at every turn.
You don’t mind, you can feast on the litter and wasted food
they leave behind
when they finally go back to their cubes,
hoping that the memory of their break will last them
until the next time.
You know more than most about hurdles
and being trodden on by authoritative boots.
It doesn’t stop you, though.
You carry on,
facing every barrier
you come across and finding the best way to pass it.
Always lifting weights greater than yourself.
You’re not too proud to ask for help,
in fact
you actively seek it
so as not to get overwhelmed.
Yes, consider life as an ant.
Maybe that will change your view.
The door to shut the world off
is much lighter than the one to open it up.
Vulnerability is covered by a heavy cloak;
sharing your innermost self is difficult
when those feelings have already begun to fossilize.
So when someone appears to sift
through the layers of rock with gentle fingers,
letting them find you is daunting.
Emotions that you long thought had filtered away
spring back,
filling you up so much
that they tip you off balance and send you tumbling
into the rock pool, sprawling among schools of uncertainty
and trying to find a way out
that won’t crush the gentle life within
but also
won’t cut you and open old wounds.
Yet the hand that found you
won’t let you pull away and hide in the dark;
it challenges you to stay and observe,
to find a way of gaining your footing
even when all sides present a challenge.
I challenge you to a game of peanuts,
palm to palm we start, fingers locked
and who will twist, who will bend,
who will break first?
I challenge you to a game of chess,
mind to mind we sit, fingers twitching
and who will lead, who will block,
who will fall first?
I challenge you to a game of codes,
eye to eye we stand, fingers drumming,
and who will seek, who will find,
who will crack first?
I challenge you to a game of words,
toe to toe we begin, fingers pointing,
and who will blabber, who will stumble,
who will cry out first?
Would you like some tea
with that milk? You’d say slyly
regarding my pale cuppa,
resting your head idly against the bookcase
searching for the storms.
My mouth would twitch,
flicking between smile and frown.
The window always opened and closed
at that point, seemingly of
its own accord
and a stack of papers would flurry in
to land by our outstretched legs.
What do we have today, then?
You’d muse, lifting a sheet
to your face. Ah, of course;
Ghost Writers. Let’s help them
find their stories, shall we?
And with that, we’d begin.
I can see the roots
growing in the corners
of your eyes,
under the ground
where you think no-one will find,
and in my veins.
Oh, you hope
to hide from me, but
you don’t know
I can look inside myself.
I can cut you out
if I want to,
like a weed.
I can leave you to wither.
Would you like that?
And the girl carrying the chest
full of the secrets from a thousand villages.
And the boy who followed after burying
the key in the depths of the deepest loch.
And the one who came smiling, tracing
their steps with coin on belt and sword
in hand.
Passing hands connect. Briefly. Branching out into a thousand minds, forcing roots around synapses. Shadows flit around: drooling mouths, gleaming eyes. Adrenaline beats in every cell, spilling out through the leaves that quiver as the prey’s sweat-filled fur touches their tips. Great lakes fill the indents left on the muddy ground, imprinted by weighted hearts. Seeking.
You will see Orion in me. In my rather too much leg. Tucked under neck, toes sticking out towards rainbow galaxies. They itch to track you, unfurling from the spine, down and down and down. Slinky jumping from the arrow head, pointed at your wordy heart. Apocalypse: the constellations shriek. They don’t want to save the world. They just hate the ugly patch our orbit takes. A screwed up sheet in a universal waste paper basket. You will see Orion in me. Orion is no longer. Orion is me.
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