We’ve all met them.
They permeate certain
parts of the air.
Some of us breathe them in,
some of us too open to speaking, engaging.
Then they talk to us.
Tangling inside,
worming away,
segmenting,
they make us listen.
We can’t shut them out.
One is a sepia photograph,
with tendrils to the past,
turning happiness a different colour.
Memories invoke such desire,
an agonising state
where one of your rooms has been locked
and inside; a fire.
Burning all this time,
but you have neither key or water.
He won’t let you put it out.
One is an ocean,
at such a hue
to make you think of nothing,
and everything.
Find meaning in all things
but also no consequence
in anything.
You can only take the well trodden path
of the lonely, sad and pensive.
This is a quiet place,
locked away too.
Nothing moves in a straight line.
He won’t let you speed up.
There’s another,
a darker being.
Animalistic.
Less careful,
more powerful.
I don’t believe I’ve met him.
Perhaps I’ve seen him,
his back turned
or felt his presence close by.
Maybe he’s searched and I’ve avoided his eye.
I hope he never catches me with full glare.
He doesn’t talk,
simply turns all the lights off,
replaces them with dimmer bulbs
that can flicker to life
when he wants them too.
He’s a destroyer,
the two his helpers.
It’s that time of year again,
an end and a beginning.
The time when you’re meant to make things happen.
But I will probably visit a park,
one with a view,
sit on the swing
and hopefully see something new.
