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.

Backwards

Do you find on occasion,
That things launch you back in time?
Like the rewind on a VCR,
A careless word,
An overbearing atmosphere,
A face,
Even a string of notes,
Does it send you backwards too?

Back to a time you’d thought lost,
A time you’d hoped was lost,
Something you believed you’d transcended,
When it was bad,
A black mark,
A chronological curse,
Left by a Davy Jones of the past,
Summoning up weeping and sweats.

Life Tourism

On this day,
Put on your sunhats and bathing suits,
Grab your towels and sun cream,
For we are all tourists,
Not in Rome,
Not in Tokyo,
Nor in Lapland,
Not even your local beach,

But tourists of life,
It’s a holiday of decades,
Under many suns and moons,
A limited booking,
With activities for every ilk,
Scholarly or athletic or otherwise,
Our time is limited,
But the possibilities are limitless,

This existence is a vacation,
A long stay in a terrestrial hotel,
And nobody knows their checkout time.

Ouroboros

Daily life is a constant grind,
A never-ending rotation,
An ouroboros,
A snake chewing on its own tail,
Day after day,
Bleeding like venom into the next,
And just like a serpent,
It’s cold and relentless,
Already piercing the flesh of the next day,
A treadmill coated in ichor,
Seeping into our veins and hearts,
The days wear away at us,
And we succumb eventually,
Venom gets its way.