Literature

Dream

Where does a dream go when it dies?
Does it suddenly stand and leave? Does it run outside to cry?
Does it wipe its nose on a sleeve? Does it simply sit and sigh?

Perhaps it hangs its head in shame?
Perhaps its arms and legs go lame?
Perhaps it starts to fade from sight?
Perhaps it starts to lose its light?

Maybe, though, there’s more to a dream?
Maybe dreams are sterner than they seem?
When a dream looks cold and grey,
Is it really dead, as they say?

A dream is not a man or creature,
A dream has no discerning feature.
A dream has no need to smile or sigh,
So can a dream then really die?

A dream cannot trip and stumble,
A dream cannot stutter or mumble,
A dream is yours to hold and keep,
No goal is for a dream too steep.

So build now towards it all,
Never let it leave you sight,
Only you can slip and fall,
And let loose your dream, into the night.
BrB.

Words

The written word is the unfortunate keeper
For the emotion which we feel.

To trap hearts and minds in paper lives
Is neither true, nor fair, nor real.

More beautiful and tragic than silent halls of finest art.
As dark and terrifying so as to make hardy soldiers start.

All cold and quiet now, a single tear falls from her cheek.
A glinting eye, and comforted smile, to hear a loved one speak.

So vast and varied and powerful, so as to hold
The everything of each life,
That to confine these moments to written word, is to
Cut with blunted knife.

Rather settle in, and look around
Heart and mind fed by the eyes.
This very second, and every sound,
Cannot be held by unintended lies.
BrB.

Behind the Desk

Pearly white cringe, menacing smile
Grab some coffee, stay a while.

“How are your kids? How about that game?
Who’s the new girl? What’s her name?”

Hollow responses, and a shallow stare
Are masqueraded here as Concern and Care.
All that matters now is your
Pin-striped suit, or bleach-blonde hair.

The tik-tik of keys, a shrill phone screams
Endless paper birthed by a bank of machines.

One big dress-up, is it not?
A massive, swirling melting-pot.
Fit in, or if you don’t
Feel free to go
There’s a million others
To fill your shoes you know.
Stay now though, and earn your keep
Quiety…hear Creativity weep.
In the corner, with Personality and your Soul
Welcome to the Corporate mixing bowl.
BrB.

Moon

A low and golden Moon
Stares through the glass.
It has no grace, or tact,
And does not shy away -
Hovering, still, bare,
Without a second’s modesty.
The icy-crisp night,
Steeped now in blackest sky,
Has lent no soft haze to dull
The starkness of this familiar guest.

Why do you come,
And always without fail?
What purpose do you serve?
Who, here, do you know?

The pock-marks of your skin
Show us all that you have known,
Yet we close our curtains
To your constant, silent eyes.
If only we lived as you do,
And showed for others ourselves,
Our beauty and our flaws,
So that they might also choose
The cold night for us.
BrB.

A Dark night of the Soul

A dark night of the soul, comes only every now and then.
When a dark night like this arrives, reach for a pen,
A pencil, or a rusty old typewriter, with its faded keys
And cast it out before you find yourself on your knees
Praying that the pressure be released from atop your head
And you be allowed to breathe, deeply again
Not these terrifying
Short
and
Sharp
gasps
Which only leave you heaving for more, on your bed.

Let the trench-coat silhouettes fight it out
Beneath your hand, away from your precious mind.
Let the face-less demons, dripping with thickest black
Flow down your arm, and out, not up your back
Inside your neck and spine, smudging all the while
Your porcelain thoughts, your porcelain smile.
Behind light eyes and rosy cheeks
Death, destruction and decay reeks.
Hidden from the outside you get by,
Only alive enough not to die.
BrB.