part 3:
The Outside
On being Ignorant of Chaos
The hole had given way.
A blemish in its pale magnificence,
Proved to be enough to bring the confines
Crumbling down,
With a push.
With my eyes pressed closed
I stepped into empty brilliance,
The searing bright pressed against my lids,
Forcing nothing more
Than the warmth on my skin.
They fluttered open,
Scrutinising the ground,
A careful inspection
That confirmed my escape;
I was now free.
My gleaming eyes jumped up gleefully,
Staring at the sky blinded me
Yet my gaze remained fixed
But with the uniformity
Painting the seas of blue
I questioned whether the sky was always up.
As the hole had toppled the wall
A sliver of doubt punctured my glee
The outside cleared into view
And with it,
A lack of clarity.
While most search for snakes,
Intruders in the grass,
My snakes were the absence
Of difference
And my garden, the vast.
A promise of quiet was broken
By the thoughts that deafened my ears
Without the oppression to subdue me
Without the marauding fumes
The world was much less quiet here.
The ground gave way
And weight left me
For a moment of stillness
The thoughts were at peace
The world, on this occasion
Pulsed with clarity.
Then the terrors of realisation
Murdered potently.
Image Source: All The World’s A Stage - An Old Age Painting by Carlos Sanchez
On being Murdered Potently
The skies rose up away from me,
The world beneath repelled.
The sea followed, gushing upwards
To engulf me as I fell.
On my hands, the sea seemed similar,
A familiar gelid feeling,
A chilling reunion just before
It drowns and sends me reeling.
A stopping of my racing heart;
My veins are frozen still,
Arteries restricted too;
My own blood a means to kill.
In a blink of calm amidst the chaos
Crystals of salt seeped through
But found their way across my skin
Into my half-healed wounds.
My eyes are forced tightly shut
By burning waves around me
Not only have they blinded my sight,
They have taken my will to see
This is how the tale ends for
My hope that now burns no more
My body floats in limbo now
It waits to be washed ashore
Image Source: Vik Beach, Iceland by Paul Andrew
On being Washed Ashore
Welcome to my story
This is the first day
My skin is cold
My eyes are bland
I have been washed ashore
And I hug the sand.
Image Source: Gemini AI
interlude iii
note to self:
don’t end up
(like him,
trust me I’ve seen
the change,
[from colour
to pallor
happy in limbo?
oxymoronic much?
highs are the lows
{levelled fields
no depressions
nor peaks}
it’s lost colour then
eyes turn colourless
without a pursuer
nor a prey
the spiral beckons]
the slight lift
above the level of farce
disappears
and you lose
the grace of tragedy)
indifferent.
Image Source: Gemini AI
On being Hugged by the Sand
My eyelids soon gave way,
Pulling open my eyes.
The wind blew me awake,
Opening the gates to my mind.
With the lack of light, my skin felt pale.
The dark had arrived and the sun had left no trail.
The sea lapped up my trail,
Ruthlessly pulling the traces away.
The grains underfoot were lifeless and pale,
But amidst the dark, the only light to my eyes,
The only light in my mind.
I prayed, I would wake.
I trudged in its wake:
The sea still devouring my trails,
The sea that had pierced through my mind
The sea that had washed me away
But those memories, like the colour of my eyes,
Started to fade as they turned pale.
The previous was, in comparison, pale
To the dreadful feeling of being awake
Awake in a void with nothing for the eyes
But my feet clocked forward, following no trail
Yet assuredly pulling me away
From what lurked in my mind.
Time slowly jabbed at my mind,
Fading my memories to pale.
But I continued to lure myself away,
My mind seemed to have made a trail.
Then, a glimpse forced my head to wake,
My whole body stared with my eyes.
A haven lay before my eyes
The variance from black quenching my mind
There I stood still, opposite a trail,
Opposite rubble, dark was stark against the pale.
Then, the moment of still was forced awake
By a marching persona, trailing away.
I wondered if all trails brought this sight to my eyes
Or if some led away, into the depths of my mind
But my wonder grew pale, for staring at the road, I was awake.
Image Source: https://stock.adobe.com/search?k=lamp+post+night
On being Awake
As the final streams are drowned
The dark envelops the bright
And marchers set their sights down
But his eyes are set alight
He enlightens with his glare
The dead rubble street
And silently stares
At the few marchers speeding East
They chase the light of new days
That, with the harsh sunshine
And his duty to the night haze,
Forever eludes his eyes
So if he could voice one last request
The lamppost would ask for the Night’s rest.
Image Source: https://pxhere.com/en/photo/892983
On losing the Night’s Rest
As blood through barren veins,
Yellow streaks incise with light
The road underfoot lacks lanes,
So I am walking the path of night.
I wait for the streaks to intrude
Into my line of sight
I pray for a last interlude
I can’t handle the bright.
My eyes remain looming low
Petrified of the heights
Embracing the world below
Avoiding the mountains of my mind
The last respites have elapsed
And though I know they are my plight
I wish this night hadn’t passed
For blindness reappears with the light.
And so,
the pendulum returns.
