I have felt the fire at midnight’s hour
It kindles brightly and sinks within the hour.
I have gazed at embers dying fast
Looked into the future and gazed into the past
I have raked the ashes cold, felt the bleakness in my soul.
As ghosts we pass
Brittle as glass
Nothing lasts
A school playground
A hut
Rain drumming
“Are they coming?”
Debating
“Escaping?”
“From what?”
“From the crowd which stifles”
“But you want to be part of the herd, to play and run with the pack”
“Do I?”
“You long to be lost in the waves, to become part of the great tide”.
“But the tide is impersonal with neither heart nor soul. It sweeps all before it battering the weak and the vulnerable”.
“Oh, but to be part of the whole, to feel the power of the mass, the banners waving, torches blazing”.
“Thank you kindly but I would rather sit, alone in my hut”.
Money exchanged
Products obtained
No joy gained.
Sunshine
A graveyard
Underground?
No not yet
A cold space, vast, aisles stretching seemingly forever. Musak plays,with occasional monotone interruptions regarding offers which one simply can not afford to miss.
Outside, an icey wind blows newspapers along streets lined with discount stores. Young men unable to articulate beyond “yeah” wander down urban pavements where “the decent” fear to tread. The inner city. Cold, desolate, dead.
Winter. Not long gone 4 pm yet, all is dark. Wind cuts like a knife. People hurry, collars turned up against the icey blast.
Home beccons. Central heating warms, hot drinks revive, but what can unfreeze the shrivelled soul inside?
