April 4 : The Long Dark Teatime Of The Soul

The clock ticks. The sun sits fatly in the still blue sky.

And I clutch my cup
swaying to the music
my mind meandering
through lanes and
untrimmed hedges
of sepia-toned memories
that I put away safely once
in shoeboxes and envelopes and drawers.

And there's nothing to do and
nowhere to be. There's no one
I want to say these things to,
                                least of all me.

So I pull the curtains on the world
and I pull the curtains on myself.
Leaving me in a dark, dark room
with nobody at all, nobody to be.

The music is slow and the music
is sad. The lamps are bright but
the light is still. Who knows
when the sun set? Who knows
when it will rise again?
My lamps are bright
and my light is still.

Happy memories,
of laughter and smiles
and being close, of
moments so precious
my glasses misted over
and I wanted to save it
(and I did but only in my head)
- they too fade. They too change.
Like roses, fat and red once,
now pale and limp and sad.

Now there's simply joy...
joy you had and left behind
and joy you would have had
but don't. Joy in his face and
joy in her face (unmirrored,
of course, in yours). Joy
that will never be yours
and joy that went it's own way
in the labyrinth of untrimmed hedges
and grey cement buildings, paths
that lead nowhere (and thus
lead everywhere - everywhere
that you will never be or know).

The clock ticks. The sun is gone.
It is that ambiguous time
of no light and no dark.
The curtains are thick
but I walk out of the room.
The sky is yours (clear
and still and painful), but
the sky is mine. I want to be
(and achieve and live) so much
but all I am is you. And all you
can ever hope to be
(and achieve and live)
                             am I.