Month: May 2017

Hush now, let us feel the silence for a little while. Can you feel the heart beat? It radiates and colours these four walls.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

We are clockwork beings. Gears churning in our busy heads, springs of coiled energy impatient in fists and feet. There is iron running through our veins.

The human time is ephemeral, a root for fear. There is a people scurrying to outlive the countdown, outpace the stopwatch. Herbs and spices they employ, incantations and surgical knives will another seek.

There are three types of people in the world. Those who take deep calculated breaths, or those who are trying to catch them, or those who lose them.

And I am caught somewhere in between the three.

While it can be terrifying to see each person’s motor become undone in due time, borrow a little of that time to touch the silence.

Despite the changing of seasons, even the falling of autumn leaves will make the fearful realise that quiet dance of the clock is one to love.

Bewildered by beauty, I gave broken pieces and You built me a palace of glass.

You remind me of my inheritance, that the shine of the heirloom on my head is a symbol of Your interminable love.

Lift your eyes, my child, are the words You gently whisper, for often I forget to stop staring at my damaged feet and instead to sight endless glory.

What else can I do, but to always try my best to grasp the depth of Your faultless love?

To be physical is not my demand, yet I will reach in myself a desire to reach out to you, if doing so will keep you safe. I will wrap my arms around in fierce affection, complete the space between fingers and pray my hardest to never let go.

There is a different pain, slow and terrifying, in watching the people you care suffer.

It has always been about you, is what you claim, that the wrongness of things persist. Never do you consider yourself a smile or a pocketful of bright, nor the velvet cool of a nocturnal’s shadow. Both have their strengths and beauty, but in yourself you are a stone drowning in a hidden pool.

The constant picking on sleeves and the hemline, how deep is the ache to tear them away. So many threads pulled taut, adjusted every moment or two. Strings weaved in order to purport a clever disguise. Patches of irrelevant cloth, threaded onto your back as temporary salves to save a facade failing.

You think, you truly think that you are pulling yourself together but I recognise that you are a sweater unravelling, and in time even my trembling figure can no longer support your breaking frame.

I am standing in front of you, in the same room with a heart screaming — yet all I can do in the end is watch your lungs choke on wool and inconsolable sorrow, and I am left behind with the mess of you.