Trying to make the grade . . .

I try not to see only myself, but
To look beyond, to the horizon, and
To see
The real colour of chameleons.
The cries of those who cannot speak,
The tears that blur the vision of those
Who cannot see,
For them,
There is no hardship in seeing
The real colour of chameleons.
The shouting from the voiceless,
The music that taunts the ears
Of those who cannot hear,
The time for those who are
Dying,
For them, it is easy to see
The real colour of chameleons.
Those for whom pain is an
Everyday existence, they
More than anyone, are the ones
Who can see
The real colour of chameleons.

© 2ndwitch, 18/10/14

(With thanks to Jim King, whose song 'Colour of Chameleons' inspired this poem. See http://www.jimking.me.uk)

When the clock strikes thirteen . . .

If the colour of your eyes is a mystery to me, then I
Can only ask the question, and expect no
Answer other than a smile.
If your hair swings across your eyes when you move
Your head, I can no longer ask the question
Because there is no answer to be given.
Allow me, allow me, holding out my hand, to
Walk with you for perhaps on mile.
Your words spin and drift into the sky, and
There they shatter and splinter, and break
Into one million fragments that slowly
Float back down to earth.
And all I do is question, and listen
And watch to see if there is an answer.
There is no answer left, they have all
Been used up and the remains swept into
A pile in the corner of the room that
Does not exist.
It used to exist but is there no longer,
This room has no door but it has four windows
That look out over the restless ocean and
Call the lonely man back to the mountain.

© 2ndwitch, 10/10/14