A knot binds tight
in a birdcage chest
pulling taut
like harness straps;
breath falters edgily
in gasps and gritty gaps
struggling for free passage
in staccato, high-heeled beats.
Achieving lung-full, fresh,
rejuvenating air:
an impossibility.
With the bindings,
a nervousness attends
surveying coldly from the sidelines;
my play stutters,
passes are awkward;
comments are strange
whilst I leave myself
somewhere behind
meekly discerning
its smudgy erasure
in distant horizons
on an exposed hill.
Sleep is medicine:
a soothing mindfulness
coating as honey.
Here, I run quicker;
see better
with piqued senses
whilst mumbling dreams
outplay, myriad-hued,
clutching me in worlds
that are familiarly new.
My stories are macabre ghosts,
darkly-bending,
twisting to worn nooses
where light struggles;
thoughts are locked
beneath coffin lids
as ghostly chimeras
flit in hallways
and forgotten attics,
whispering fragments
of my name.
A new project
wavers on horizons
tired before starting,
but visceral and blood-veined;
a muse stands on stretched toes
across a vast lake
eager to catch my attention.
Otherworldly, ethereal,
she glowers in lamplight
enlightening like fireflies;
I reach my hand
note her wavering on edges
before her sleek, seal-like body
glides beneath,
far below,
to imaginative depths.
She resurfaces
enticing me still,
inviting me to join her:
to hear her siren song.
I feel cool, baptising waters
embalm my toes,
inviting me forwards
to swim in creative floods
where a mackerel-grey surface
conceals an underworld,
brimming full of fantastical hues;
a plethora of liquid pens
float as eager, silvered fish
ready to be known,
displayed in poetic lines.
Photo by Nsey Benajah on Unsplash
