There is stillness
A certain eloquence of breath
In these my quieter moments
When I can hear
Within my garret of lies
Concealed beneath a subterfuge of sky
Continuing to feed each liability
The latent fidelity of I.
I bargained again.
The rust of trust
Fills my pockets.
The iron ligature of isolation
Of compromise
Of suicide inside
A symphony of empathy
A need for love and pride.
And now there is no one left to tell
Let alone confide.
It was an uneventful day until
The skate brake
The thin opaque rush
The frost
The brush
The ice in the chest
The next breath
A guess
The hiss of abyss
As I was pulled back
To be kissed.
Dead doubts
Stranger stare
Asleep in my own skin
Hurt from the dirt
My shirt flakes break
The glass of isolation
Makes my vision opaque.
I am numb.
I no longer feel what’s real.
The wheel of circumstance
The one last chance
I lose my muse.
The crowd gawps
I stop.
A belated collective holding of breath.
I have the good sense
To drop the pretence
And fence off the dirt and the pain.
I am sane.
I clamour for rain.
An acceptance of chaos
With nothing to gain.
I’m shelled with vague descriptions
Of random chance connections
The under-pinning of self-reflection
For this my own
Immaculate deception.
