The Wolves

I took the train today,

an achievement…

Those around me stared,

sensing the smell of fear.

Burning eyes in strange faces,

pack wolves circling their prey,

in a forest of vinyl chairs.

 

I smiled a fear grin

because it was expected.

Some bared their teeth

and murmured platitudes,

before averting their eyes.

 

Behind my iPhone,

my pounding heart calmed

marginally.

Mimicking those around me,

my thumbs on the darkened screen,

pretending to engage with imagined friends,

occasionally nodding, smiling,

like the others did.

 

And so I sat for half an hour,

motionless,

cramped legs numb,

unmoving elbows,

hyperventilation tingled lips.

 

As the train approached my station,

anxiety surged anew.

To stand, and move between

the tangled web

and make my way towards

the door.

Proximity alert!

 

Teeth clenched, narrow-eyed,

fight-flight mode on,

I rose,

and those around me stirred…

following…

Excitedly sniffing my fear-sweat

drenched armpits.

Their scuffling feet and

humid rain-soaked musky

smell,

behind me in the aisle.

 

It was in those moments

before closed doors

opened,

and the throng of bodies

spilled onto the platform,

I perished.

 

Grabbed by the throat

by gnashing teeth,

my spilled blood

lapped up.

 

I was left dying

in darkness in the rain.

Their smell was gone,

their howling stopped.

Alone again.

 

Until my trip home.

 

Image:  clip art library
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The Wanderer

I rest the palms of my hands

on my knees

and breathe slowly,

 

in- out-

 

I feel the rhythm

of my chest

falling and rising,

hear the sound of air rushing

in my ears.

 

It calms

the wanderer in my head

and lets him rest

amongst the sulci

in my brain.

 

But at night

when darkness breaks

my mindful concentration,

restless footsteps

on my slumber…

 

and, as I lie and ponder

why he wanders,

tired eyes are forced open

once again.

The Door

When my life

is just

doing time.

When my joy and laughter

are just

pretending.

 

When my days stretch into

endless

repetition

without expectation, anticipation or

perspective.

When I watch others live

their life,

whilst my life

just

passes by…

 

Then rests only

dread…

Life in the prison of my

mind,

dark, with boarded windows

and one door.

 

Now the question:

Do I stay…

or leave?

 

 

 

Alien

People ask why I speak

in broken sentences,

incoherent,

fragmented,

then

sometimes crystal clear.

 

My words are

a product

of

a mind under stress.

Frantic searching,

communication,

connection,

the only way I can.

 

Not otherwise

specified,

never fitting,

unbelonging…

 

A fearful hand

reaching out.

 

Be careful with your comments,

I sponge them up

and spew

them back into the world.

 

They become

what I write:

Tattered words,

by an alien

consuming

all it gets.

The Precipice

I have stood on the precipice

of the rest of my life,

for a while now.

With my toes over the edge,

balancing,

uncertain,

afraid to plunge into the abyss.

 

Frozen,

eyes shut.

Unable to look to the future

beckoning

in sunlit beauty across

the divide.

 

Calling gently,

encouraging me to trust,

to leap

and set my mind to joy…

 

but I cannot…

paralysed…

 

Behind closed lids

warm tears well and slip

saltily

down my cheeks.

 

Why?

 

Silence.

 

Why…

do I dare not live?