From a Darkness

This is a piece that I wrote some time ago now as an insight on depression and near loss

From a Darkness that crowds out all reasonable sight,
you crave just the smallest chink of some life-giving light,
if not to complete you or bolster your sagging resolve,
at least it might warm you and make you involve
yourself into something constructive, definitely far more
than hiding all those festering fears behind your minds triple locked door.

From a Darkness that’s oppressive, empty, so cold and stark,
there has to be a way of re-modelling, your once envied mark,
even with all the troubles past, be they by honest curtailment,
who can live without some degree of comfort and mild entertainment
which once lifted your heart, lifted your mind, lifted your body your soul
and worked out a way of reaching, some more meaningful goal.

From a Darkness where light’s been almost snuffed out,
locked away not by choice, its loss only fuels your nagging doubt,
that were you ever someone who might have had any worth,
any kindness, if ever you did, distinctly now, there’s a deepening dearth.
But if you cut out some of your ‘things’, you could move past all that now,
but it’s still down to a strict society to dictates all your why, when and how.

From a Darkness where light struggles so hard to escape,
no matter how much you play it down, stand it up, or ape
in ways that seem so false, many crude, rude, insincere,
fed only by bravado and bluster but formulated from a very real fear
of the stronger side of your menacing, mangled, inverted mind,
that snuffs out what’s left of the goodness, leaving you blooded and blind.

From a Darkness, light somehow has to come through
to give you a life back with some validation, let you start again, anew,
plumb some depths, be more honest, if only it were for real,
some sort of life might be found, one that might even have an appeal,
or is the old one the better one, personable, at least more congenial
do you go with the safe? the straight? or the lifeless and the menial?

From a Darkness, Light, oh yes they tell you it’s all out there,
but it’ll get no closer if you just sit there, blank faced and stare,
but every effort and really trying finds you empty still firmly chained,
‘cus at the back of mind your inner truth is still intact, if firmly reined
to that cruel course you’ve long chosen, embedded now oh so deep,
it’s the way that you are, every minute, even through sleep.

From a Darkness, points of light still sharp if faint ever so tantalising,
but then they always were, no, your lost, to simple romanticising
of what others all managed, albeit with some pain, only to find,
that nothing matters, it comes as no blow but never good, never kind.
You make it seem that you’re still happy, but knowing that you’ve lost,
doomed to live your own life, cold, alone, and very singularly cursed.

From a Darkness, you sit there in the gloom,
it’s safer for all if you stay away, except for a few to whom,
you make out your coping just fine and in a perverse way you still are,
anyway who really needs things material, you’ve managed thus far.
But there In your darkness you steer away from the light,
at least sane society is saved from your malignancy and blight.
But the darkness still threatens, the lights, they seem to be gone
what’s left for you now, perhaps just the one final act and there, it’s done.

The Caller

This is the first of a number of pieces I have written in 99 words, an idea I have unashamedly cribbed from another well know blog, but then what is truly  new…. perhaps just different and I hope you enjoy them from time to time.

The tapping passed into reality and he came face to face with the swan’s black and orange beak beyond the boat’s glass where the water level gave level eye contact with the milky white creature.

Recognising the sideways nod, the man slid off the bunk and padded to the rear doors, still stiffly aroused.

Drawn not to the water but the shadowy towpath, the luminescent but unmistakable outline stretched its long neck tall as it transformed into a more familiar slim shape, a wide wing melted into an arm, a slender finger called them both back into the dream.The Caller

Saturday dies

Last thoughts for a dull day.

Saturday night slides inexorably towards its end

A solitary figure stares at the pitiless TV screen

Subtly is long-lost

The summer chill sets in and

He slides towards the shapely but cold duvet

Sleep eludes

Silence deafens

Staring eyes drill holes in the ceiling

The dawn is stagnant

Will it ever start?

Will it ever save him?

All will’s lost