A cloud in my coffee . . .

You think you are so wonderful, so marvellous,
Everyone must love you, want to touch the hem
Of you oh so long black leather coat, or kiss the ground
That your highly polished tooled leather boots
Walk across.
You look down on mere mortals, smile an alligator smile
And pass on, content that there is nothing to interest you.
You accept the plaudits, the praise, the sycophantic lies
That you believe to be true.
The jewel in your ear glints in the spotlight,
Your medallion is lying half hidden by your
Immaculate shirt, so artfully open just the right amount,
And when you are on show, your smile is warm and
Welcoming, and so shallow not even a newborn infant
Could drown in it.
You think you are the best, the top of the tree,
A chart buster, desired and loved by all.
But you are just another human, frail, damaged
And hiding in a shell of false glamour.
The rings on your hand are hiding the bruises
Your fingernails made when you dug them in
So deeply as you fought down the waves of panic
And fear.
Your sleeves are long so that the marks on your arms
Do not show. You never smile with your eyes,
If you let your eyes into the game then
All they would do is shed tears.
Your mask is cracked, your armour is rusting,
One day no-one will care, and you will
Finally have to accept being real.

© 2ndwitch, 07/03/15

In memory of what we were.

The world continues, the sun shines, the rain falls,
Cars drive past, but inside all is grey, and the colour
Is imaginary, a meeting that never happens, an
Encounter on a train, a dream, a longing that cannot
Be fulfilled. In dreams there is perfection, faults
Vanish like snow in June, smiles abound,
And no-one cries with the pain of rejection.
Why cannot life be a dream?
Why do the small things take on a life
And meaning alien to their intent, why
Do we dream instead of living a reality
That is humdrum and grey? Why, that is why,
Of course we dream, but sometimes the dream
Becomes like reality, and then we drift and
Float and are no longer there. We want
To be who we are not, and what we are not.
I am not what I am, but I wish I was what I am not.

© 2ndwitch, 08/09/14

Now it is night in that land.

When life is a mere thread, thin and fragile,
And fear is tugging hard,
When midnight seems so dark, the stars
Are mute and silent, the
Wind shines silver with tears,
Then we remember.
Then we cannot forget.
The we remember that we are
Remembered, that times
Cannot be lost, they just fade
And soften, the pains
And hurts melt into one
Blurred dream.
I reach out to you, but you
Do not see me, you are
Serene and cannot see
Because you do not want to see.
That is the deepest and
Stillest pool of all for me.

© 2ndwitch, 04/09/14

Being woman . . .

The slow-breathing, sonorous, strong, and ever-there,
Is counterpoint to the ticking clock,
The passing of time does not fade the memories,
But rather it cloaks them in gossamer, a swirl of conformity
And the safety of silence. Always silence.
Shame. The deep-red blush of guilt, reminding and replaying
Time and again, the recollections of rough fingers
And of tobacco breath, and beer, and three days not washed.
The ache, the heaviness, the weight of his body pinning her
Fast to the bed. All these things.
The sharp pain, the failure, the stolen sense of self.
All of these things are there, in the fractured melody
Of his deep breathing, and in the
Counterpoint of the ticking clock.
Callous lips that bite and snatch at ageing and wrinkled skin.
The bass-line of the voice that mocks
And condemns. All of these things.
But still, this is all, is all, is all there is,
There is no more, nothing.
Being woman.

© 2ndwitch, 02/06/14

(My thanks to Martyn Joseph, http://www.martynjoseph.net, for his song 'This Being Woman' for pushing me to actually write this.)