Hope

143.

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This be the feeling for 2018, yet it is no vice. Full credits to Emily Brynes on Instagram  (@emilybrynes.poetry).

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140.

El Roi; the God who sees me.

Here when breath finds itself lost in a crowd, when feet melt into water and fall sideways. Watching these hands fail to grip the balloons of dreams and have them popping in the intensified air. This yarn of thought scrambled, disconsolate, eventually frayed. Crease all the papers into attempted perfect folds, run the life that never is.

Six feet under in the space I’m supposed to call home.

Flower on the wall, grown strange and peculiar. Remember to stand tall, raise the hand of one’s heart, even when it quivers interminably. Speak in words that don’t exist, for more so is none important. The dark and the shadows find shape in gentle light. The hand outstretched that never intrudes the bubble.

I know just the special little something for you, He whispers lovingly.

Look up and know.

El Roi; the God who sees me.

127.

If memory is flexible, this is what it should remember:

 

The cold frigid air of midnight

Lightning broken and thundering drum

Cosy steamboat and unrestrained laughs

Shot in the dark, silver tail of the sky.

 

Not only these, but

 

Conversations leading to undiscovered roads

Upturned shoes of sleepiness

Eternal rounds of strawberries

Strangers then, now siblings in Christ.

 

Dear memory, please don’t become undone.

119.

This place, a home it cannot be. Lie on the floor, watch cloaked figures drip toxic smiles from the ceiling. Roll a ball, have it defy the laws of gravity and ascend continually. Cracked lines continue from the windowsill. There is a lock but no key. There are spaces with no door in between. In my going I need not move my feet. Just forget to breathe.

House of cards, make one and let it crumple. Dust gathers even in a vacuum. Handsome one, they call me, ask what goes on in my head. Etched palms and peeling lips keep them all away.

Where do the others go when only one can take control?

How can someone out there know the weight of holding on to more?

Free fall into glass ceilings, let them break forever. Destruction is music to deaf ears. Bite marks on pillows, changing writing, codes abundant. Keep the enemies guessing. Black hole spiralling and stealing all that can be.

Strip down and see. Flesh charred with ink. Which world and who to be angered less, to chase fleeting shadows.

109.

I see you.

You, taking the time to stoop and remove shattered glass from the walkway.

 

I see you.

You, graciously leaving the seat for the sake of another.

 

I see you.

You, slowing down to watch the flowers grow with a smile on the face.

 

I see you.

You, listening when the world no longer gave a care.

 

I see you.

You, willing to disappear when you mean so much more that you realise.

 

I see you.

You, broken up with a million constellations bursting in the brain.

 

I see you.

You, fragile and beautiful one.

 

I see you.

I’ve seen you now and a million more.

99.

So much power in the act of writing, or so I choose to place my faith in. I have written letters for people with no faces and no names, crafting pieces for an unknown recipient. I do not think that I am foolish for trying something unreturned, for who knows if in these secret doings will someone find reason to hope again?

Leave a scattering on the car window, pages of old, table worn and other possible places. Run like the wind, don’t get caught or the magic spell may find itself undone.

In my timid heart I do fear that I may be playing with fire, but I will continue building and see if there is more than this fragile house of cards.