Living in sections with gaps in between.
Memories are fleeting, insubstantial ghosts;
Even ghosts lived once though.
Lucidity beckons, as does a yearning for clarity.
But when it is the moments you don’t remember,
When it is the snapshots that hold the key,
Then how can you be sure if you’ve ever really lived at all?
Such are the tribulations of a time-lapse mind.
The only assurance being that there is none to be had,
And if there was, you wouldn’t remember it.
The distant church bells rang with midnight tones. Those still awake pulling the covers a little higher, those asleep just shuddering. The witching hour of that most sacred of damned days was upon the world, but young Tom merely smiled and pulled his woollen hat down lower. It was not the cold of Halloween that chilled him, but that of an early frost.
Tom peeped through the cemetery railings thinking himself inconspicuous in his lime-green jacket. He waited for something. On that final chime, he found himself gripping the blistering iron just that bit tighter.
“Please, please, please,” he whispered over and over again. “You can do it. Please, you can, I believe in you.”
He was a determined boy for eight. No scary stories of ghost and ghouls would stop him; he was counting on them.
But the minutes ticked by, the air growing colder by the second without reward.
Tom rolled his tongue in his cheeks and decided to be brave. He had to be brave! And sneaking from his lookout point, he climbed the railed fence and walked into the cemetery.
There was so many dead people. He lost count of the tombstones after thirty. But he had bigger things to worry about than maths and numbers. With the unnerving accuracy of someone who’s taken a winding path too many times, he soon stood before a grave not long filled.
Tom stood there, his eyes pleading, his hands rubbing together, but the earth did not move, the ground did not stir.
“Please,” he said again.
“Please, it has to be tonight. I can’t wait another year.”
And as the boy looked down at the last part of the engraving and read, ‘Father of Tom’ he realised he wasn’t going to see him, not this year. So wiping at his eyes with the back of his sleeve he turned to go home. Maybe next year he thought. Maybe next year he hoped.
Sallow moments of ambient light
The delicate texture of day meeting night
Conjunction of opposites both as one
Where life without either just wouldn’t be fun
I’ll dwell where they dwindle, one of a kind
In place where the dusk relaxes my mind
And that’s where you’ll find me if you care to be
In the limbo of evening alone and yet free
Does a wave seek shore
Does a sea seek an ocean
Or do they just seek
Fragrant rain pours down on me in subtle shades of lavender.
There is something odd about it, slightly askew,
But I neither care nor wish for it to stop.
That lightest of purples pools about my feet in twin puddles of a past in haze,
Casting my reflection back to me in rippling shades of grape.
Where I am and how I got here is non consequential,
I simply enjoy the aroma of peace
And wonder if I will ever feel this way again.
Dreams are of such delicate composition as to be impossible to recreate.
But I’ll never forget your lavender eyes
To be lost amidst a landscape of hill and dale
Staring up at oceanic skies awash with foaming cloud
To be caught in the rainstorm and laugh it off
And be glad of deserted liquidity
Where unfamiliar becomes familiar
And twisted trees instead contort as dancers
Be it sun or snow, rain or shine
Cool lakes of pooling colours mirroring the dawn
I would say to you, my dear friend
That you are not lost, but finally found