Witching Hour

Do you ever lay awake at night?
Beyond the turn of midnight,
Wondering why you weren’t enough,
Or how you could have performed differently,
Your mind painting new timelines,
Wishes upon tired stars,

The devils hour is thought sinister,
But bad karma only comes to those deserving,
It has become a stage for the crestfallen,
The night breeze is a fitting backtrack,
A subtle chill to the bone,
Numbing the body,

The demons of the hour recognise heartbreak,
For even they are angels to some,
They shall not bring more torment upon you,
They know your heart is the prime malignant harrier,
They spy the anguish on your cheeks,
The inconsolable tears upon your pillow,

This is no nightmare,
No black magic at work tonight,
No witchcraft or demonology,
This is simply a soul breaking down,
Heartbreak in the twilight,
A melancholy man or woman watched over by the moon,

This is real.

The Immaterial

I am surrounded by the Immaterial,
Fingers and faces I cannot see,
Like a wind tunnel splaying out to the heavens,
I feel it swirling around me like unnatural wind,
It’s like being submerged in icy water that pulses,

I dont know from whence this supernatural force materialised,
A heretofore unknown elemental dynamic,
Whispers and hymns sung in flux,
Butterflies and figures waltzing in florid vividity,
Their colours unaffected by the dusts of the air,

I dont know what these spectres want from me,
Be they incorporeal apparition or trick of the mind,
The whispers that I can’t help but heed,
Be it sorcery or illusion,
The tingles upon my skin that I cannot feel,

I am haunted by the Immaterial,
A force that sends my senses in to spasm,
Disbelief sprouts from my very mind,
And yet I cannot deny it,
This ever-present wind that screeches to itself,
Neither friend nor foe.

Elephants

I sit reclined upon this scathing sand,
With the resort of the present behind me,
Belly laughs and dances and skipping,
And the broiling sea of the past before me,
Do-overs and regrets and flashbacks,

I spy herds of elephants migrating along the horizon,
A parade of weighty emotions,
Carrying memories myriad of years past,
Mirages of yesteryear images against the sunset,
Fizzing above the waves,

The herd continues unabated,
Each heavy footfall was pachyderm remembrance,
A weighty vision of events past,
My brain sits astride them gazing back at me,
Quizzically inquiring why I look upon their assemblage of years gone,

Why look back?
Why hark to the trumpeting?
Forget the elephants and pain,
They do not walk in your future.

Mad Professor

Upon a lonely cliff,
At the limits of our aged city,
There lies a slaughterhouse-cum-laboratory,
Haunted by a man who cured sanity,
A professor of touched genius,
An unhinged heretic of science,
An ireful storm engulfs the old building,
As if nature itself fulminates at the reality of the doctors toil,
An experiment is in progress,
A rital of scientific blasphemy,
His zeal is absolute,

This haven of heinous vision,
A tinkerers paradise,
Lightbulbs and tesla coils,
Tools of all ghastly shades,
Slabs that may or may not have laid cadavers,
Unfinished projects,
Some inanimate and others scream for attention,
But he is focused upon todays business now,
A scheme the bad doctor has wrought for decades,
A plot the entire world shall witness,
The science of revenge,

An ember of a bunsen there,
And a dash of periodic table salts here,
Wide-eyed he gazes at the vials,
The sickly serums within pulse energetically,
Signalling their readiness,
These shall be his magnum opus,
The vapours from these hell-mouthed vials,
They shall cleanse this city that demonised him so cruelly,
The city shall choke,
No longer able to disparage his mind,
Next the rest of the world.

Stockholm Syndrome

The moon is bowing out,
The sky begins to turn blue,
The sun peaks out in anxiousness,
When the lager has fulfilled its vexing purpose,
My cell walls become a blur,
A certain grim loneliness falls over me,
I miss days and people of the past,
Diseases I’d thought vanquished,

A time I was a prisoner,
Without chains physical,
But mental bindings in the thousands,
I was thrall to a foul spell,
An infatuation I called love,
Or what I wrongly believed to be love,
A servitude I still bear scars of,
A malady I even thought to exalt,

It nearly killed me to be sure,
A dagger running its way into my chest,
But at times I miss the misery,
And pine for the pain,
But I ought never go back,
My days as a flagellant are over,
I have transcended the convict I once was,
Never again.

Whetstone

This world is indeed a carousel out of control,
Run on chemical disasters and hominid mistakes,
Fuels of chaos,
Colours and shapes that don’t fit,
A turmoil our minds were not designed for,
Dulling and stress-testing our mental blades,

But on this day of mental health aid,
I proclaim to you that you are alone,
Let my words built of granite support you,
Bolster your barricades and direct your first footfall,
A whetstone to sharpen your confidence,
Enabling you to cut down your demons,

Whichever torment has assailed you,
Many others shall be whetstones for you as well,
It is a global blight,
You need only reach out,
Scores of angelic blacksmiths ready to assist,
There is no need to suffer in silence,

Please.

Scarecrow

The season of the harvest is here,
When the arbors perform strip shows for their friends,
And the land adopts an ochre blanket to hushnup its prudishness,
Pumpkins and Guy Fawkes prepare their pomp,
The air grows ever brisker,
In preparation for Jack Frost,
His winter games for us all to endure,

Over yonder I spy an idle spectator,
Held aloft and open in a field,
A wooden figure of a human,
An offputting caricature of straw and old fashion,
Though bodily impervious to the changing of elements,
He hates the chill and wind but can only scream in silence,
His mouth is sewn shut,

What crime justifies such a penance?
What devilry gave him this crucifixion?
An idol of the harvest,
To withstand storm and banish avian menace,
This farmyard mannequin restrained,
Was it against his will?
Or merely born of a desire to attend the seasons shift?

Poor Hades

Do you hear the sobbing?
Hades and the Reaper sit side-by-side,
Mourning,
But not for their expired charges,
But for their assumed roles as villains,
As monsters,

Among a garden of grey roses,
Huddled betwixt souls in repose,
Beside the Styx,
Thrust there by cruel circumstance,
One guides the dead to finally rest,
The other acts as caretaker and guardian,

And what do they receive for their service?
Fear,
The unerring terror of death,
They too prisoners of fates hand,
Hades laments his own torment,
Head in hands,

Their very purpose likened to evil,
But it’s a lie borne of fear,
Death is merely another step,
And its agents merely accessories to this end,
They reap no love though,
They merit pity not dread.

Headache

Somethings in my head,
A beastly array of pains and throes,
I can feel it clawing at the walls,
And all the pain that entails,
I know not what is in there,

A bloody drum kit played by an ogre,
Or a cat with too many legs,
A stack of plates like the tower of pisa,
Or a feverish jazz band,
A penance forced on to my brain,

It hurts,
Pangs like bolts through the veins,
I grow weary of it,
The only question upon my lips,
When will it dissipate and give me rest?

Pretender

Society dragged me aside to let me know,
I have childish notions of being an artist,
A foolish path,
Ludicrous wants and ideas,
Plans of a dunce,
Or so am I led to believe,

Am I just pretending?
An impostor,
Doing the motions without understanding?
Wearing my silly apron,
With my silly pen,
Writing my silly little words,

When I string together webs of emotion,
Am I a creator?
When I put words to paper,
Am I a writer?
When I brush colour on to parchment,
Am I a painter?

I don’t know the truth of it,
Perhaps I do sully the name of wordsmith,
Playing at artistry,
Wearing a mask of competence,
Though I shake behind it,
Perhaps I am just pretending after all.