Twilight

 

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art: ifeng.com

Each dawn brings
Sunday’s lament
for ancient times.
Released on twilight’s limbs,
it crawls slowly
through arched skies –
wafting the darkness –
until it settles to meet
my ankles.
Luckily, songbirds
hidden by the morning mist
accompany me
on my journey,
always before sadness
beclouds my intent.
Ahead of me on this long,
long road, hope waits
with its strange arms
open wide, outstretched,
and ready to cradle me,
to make me replete.

Paradigm Shift

 

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Did something shift
when love’s thoughts shuffled
centre?

Antsy, fidgety fingernails’
pin prick strikes
scramble
on the surface
tapping like an ice skater’s toe;
becoming skewed.
Reasons misalign
inside of silver hair,

tense, strained
copper wires
inside of a feeling

are stretched, misread
trembling sentiments
misfiring and gone awry –
askew, off centre,
nonsensical

like leftover bread that has
gone stale and black specks of mould
begin to eat the crust first,

eaten with dulled eyes –
duller senses –
a definite shift;
a paradigm’s lament
becomes manoeuvrable,
mobile
and not scared at all
to pull the rug out
and let us spill
like crumbs.

 

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