Carve out this thing within me

This great, dark lump;

Carve out this festering stone

That seeks to pull a man down;

Tear open the dry rib cage

And rip away, rip away, rip away

This endless wellspring

That floods my body so

That I could drown if not for the air

That slips past and fills my lungs;

Cut away this beating pest

This false,  sick source of life

That I might become a grey man

A character from a Dicken’s novel

Who can stand and watch the worst of us

Without even a breath, a tear, or even fear

That all things end in fire.

This rock

It is grey

Like a kind of granite

Cold and unyielding to the touch;

But it is hollow

Slowly, its insides,

They have been chiseled away

Until it was empty,

A shell of itself…

Words are easy

They spring forth like gas at Delphi

And my oracle eagerly breathes them

And then rolls them out like bones

To read the past, the present and future;

Words are a Ouija board without order

Spelling out nonsense as wanted prophecy

Or sometimes curses aimed at enemies;

Words are the rudder of my shaky ship

Steering me through desperate straits

Screaming louder than the sirens

That beckon my way

Seeking to sink me in scenarios

Designed to drown my world.

We are busy

As the storm rolls through

We are active and awake

Buzzing with distractions

Looking at each other

And not away

And this is a good thing

While the rain pours down

We continue to prepare

We rightly refuse to drown

The day starts in fog

Impenetrable grey sheet

That hangs about the world

And all is sodden and heavy

We are cold to the bone

As if warmth will never come again

sometimes i hunt monsters,
i track them down and kill them
then i wear their skin like my own
to warn the other ones away

but

the problem with a disguise
is forgetting who you are
so i must tear it from my flesh
before it is more than skin deep
then go to the river to wash,
cleansing away the past
and starting anew

in the midst of the day
we stop, we listen, we wonder
how we should carry this thing
that deepens the prints
we leave behind our wandering selves
bleak depressions in the sucking earth?

shall we set it down
and continue on lighter
or perhaps go on
in the hope that
strength tested is strength grown

why not the former…
for maybe it was never ours,
maybe it was placed upon us
by some other passer by
seeking to uncharitably unload
some self-made sack of woe

and so we stop for a moment,
take stock of the contents
to see it filled with shame
and in determination decide
that we will not carry
another person’s burdens;
we have walked honourably
and will continue to do so
making it our choice
and no one else’s

In the chaos

There is a calm centre

An eye in the hurricane

That watches dispassionately

And when the time is right

Can come forward

Taking the helm

And guide us through the storm

Buy he doesn’t like to let go

loss waits in the wings
like a thief hiding in a corner
waiting for the unaware
to stumble past
in blind confidence
that the night holds no threat
and so it bides its time
leaping out
into the blinding light of sunrise
catching you unaware
and taking everything of worth
until you rage, rage, rage
at your own stupidity
for ever leaving yourself exposed
write it out and away
until the coming of the day
when words will not be enough

There is no end

To the giving up

To the cycle

That seeks to remain hidden

Because we cannot deny

Our own nature

We are slaves to appetite

We are bound for destruction

Some days, the sun does not rise.