Early Hours

It is the mourning period of the last night,
The early hours of the morn,
When foxes cry and frost descends,

I’m cloaked in the velvet breeze,
Lapping softly against my cheek,
This witching hour,
This twilight,
It is a meditative time,
When the sky burns its many candles,

Even as lethargy rears its head,
It is pleasant,
But it’s the calm before the storm,

Something appears on the horizon,
That eerie blue glow,
It is as beautiful as it is foreboding,
For I know what follows,
That which burns the eyes,
And wearies the soul.

Grandfather Clock

I remember as a child,
Every occasion the hour struck due,
And that resounding tone would emanate,
I would shiver,
Knowing that time had stolen a breath,
And it’d continue even without earshot,
It was that antique grandfather clock,
That accursed authority on time,
With a pendulum of meteorite iron,

I remember it even now,
It’s stature like a judge at court,
It was no humble timekeeper,
But Father Time in oaken design,
As if possessing this apparatus,
Ticking in his voice,
It scared me,
For whom else on this plane,
Could foresee one’s end?

Portents

It is hard to say,
Whether the future is set in stone
Or malleable as pastry,
Indeed there are predictive methods,
Warnings of impending strife,
The portents,
But do they speak true?

The winds of chronology are fickle,
Any sage could attest,
But our threads may yet be seen,
Be it calamity or fortune,
So what do the tarot cards signify?
Do you see it in the tea leaves?
What does the crystal ball show you?

Uncharted

Each day,
We enter uncharted territory,
Unknown waters,
A new chronology,
And each hour,
We take another cagey step,
Afeared of the possibilities and consequences,
There is no knowing what we’ll uncover,

Steep cliffs and jungle heat,
Glaciers and deserted Chernobyls,
Places not on the map of yesterday,
Sandy tombs of new information,
Great canyons of unforeseen challenges,
Sanctuaries of familiarity,
And drakes masquerading as new friends,
All are on the map of today,

This fluid geographic chart,
It’s wiped clean at midnight,
And tomorrow,
We venture out again.

Mirror Image

One grave night,
As if to chastise me,
The moonlight shone bright upon my mirror,
And I spied through its surface,
Like waves over a reef,
And I saw him,
Or rather myself,
Stood in a forgery of my own room,
Or was I the forgery?

He was somehow more dignified,
Sporting a genuine smile,
His top hat was neat and dust-free,
His obsidian suit freshly laundered,
His circumstances appeared appeared just as idyllic,
A luxury suite in place of my hovel,
Accolades on the walls,
A blushing spouse on his arm,
His existence seemed to mock my own,

I stare crestfallen from my solitude,
Envying my mirror image,
A single emerald in my sight,
He gazes back from his world,
And he smirks,
A diamond of pity in his eye.

Revolving Door

Life is a revolving door,
A contraption both devilish and glorious,
Spinning within a cyclone,
A tornado of crises and marvels,
Spied through lucent glass,

Dizzy,
So dizzy,

Other figures ride alongside,
Friends and enemies,
Lovers and nemeses,
They get on and off at random,
Stepping out of sight and mind,

Whirling,
Still whirling,

As the years go by,
The door spins slower,
The options dwindle,
Eventually it’ll cease,
With only a single destination,

Silence,
No more heartbearts.

Slower

Time has trained us to go fast,
Too fast,
Too rushed,
Too occupied,
It’s a coach that’s pushed us too hard,
Accelerating each year,
Running over aspirations in its path,
Modernity is some kind of stimulant,
Petroleum to a match,
Sprinting towards our coffins,

Our lives have become skip buttons on LED screens,
Not slow enough,
Not carefree enough,
Not free enough,
The Earth is a blur of coloured motion,
We dismiss the small connections,
No longer feeling the rain or grass,
Only enjoying life in passing,
We’re too busy climbing the heights,
That we miss the sights.

Torschlusspanik

After each squandered day,
A recurrent occasion,
In my bed do I lament,
Am I wasting my time?
Is it too late to have achievements?
Am I too late to change?
The moon softly consoles,
A sad piano in her voice,
For she has seen this many times,

The gate is slowly closing,
And my panic claws at its timber,
The sand runs away,
And my bloodshot eyes weep at the loss,
But this was all my doing,
I tied this blood-red noose,
Many moons ago,
And with each sundown it grows tighter,
The portcullis edges lower.

Unwritten

Do you fear the unwritten end?
The unknown future,
And the lead up to it?
It’s true the author hasn’t written it yet,
And there’s no sequel,
When the pages grow fainter and fainter,
The story grows muddled,
And become blank,
The fonts begin to twist,
Before fading into the mists,

But hold fast,
You are not an omniscient scribe,
But still the determinant of the story’s plot,
The future is indeed an enigma,
But you hold the quill,

Don’t fear the unwritten,
Write it.

Diorama

The revelation was like a diorama,
A breath hanging in the air,
Clocks stopped in their tracks,
Shocked faces and closed fists,
A car crash frozen in time,
Unlike a table-top simulacrum,
These models are flesh,
The flushed cheeks and tears are not painted,
The vegetation is upturned tables and bile,
Art precluding a debacle,

This moment caught in biting ice,
It’s very real,
The next moment,
Won’t be so scenic,
It’ll be all rage and discordance.