Monday, February 29, 2016

What a long night is this (William Shakespeare - Henry V)

My sky shall not want

An insipid, weak chinned, mealy mouthed, chicken shit sky
hangs above the acacias, not able
to make up its mind, whether to dissolve
the day or hang about...

Right now, it feels like an old television drama
the one about an old cowboy who realises
he's been living a lie. Not able
to deal with a traumatic past,
slowly coming to terms with the darkness ahead,
he's buried down, deep down...

I'm hoping he gets a happy ending - a Hollywood sunset,
credits around the corner. Wave on wave
of credits. All wrapped up in a friendly package.

O for a muse of fire.

Enigmatic and distant figures
connected in age and distance
mirage like appear on the horizon
before me. Merge. Twist. Spiral.

It's dark now, outside, I guess.
I see reflections in the window light.
Furniture, the other contents of the room, books, plants.
I can't see me in the reflection,
but I can sense I'm
A trick of the light, I'm invisible. 

Will it never be day?

I glimpse long ago mistakes and try to shake them off.
This is not a television drama. Nothing like it.
Not a dream. Nothing like an illusion.
No matter how I wish it so.

Too many confrontations as the darkness finally arrives
and hides the chicken shit sky.

A new day is coming. 

I would it were morning.


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