A song about silence
sung from the wings
to mourning pews
piled high with abandoning
The note was struck
the piano rings
in the cowering din
filled with “I can’t”s
the still air stings
sharp and prickling
against the skin
the prayer book open
the pages singed
by the dying flame
of unfulfilled dreams.
What is this this thing, Life?
This synchronous rhythm, existing only in mind?
This skin made of stardust pulled from the voids of space?
This feeling of a moment by which you are defined?
This beat of a muscle whose manner of starting is still unexplained?
The small hours of a morning where Hope welcomes the new day?
That sensation of beauty and warmth as butterflies flutter by?
A thing of woven experiences, dreams and aspirations – the net of stars over the night sky?
Some bad men now with bad bones and bad minds,
go about unquestioning, unconscious, ignorant and wry.
And what of the Angels, who recognise that the upholding of this unreality
mars the pretence of time.
Thus, we question this thing, life,
this feeling, this glint in one’s eye.
Is it a freight train, perhaps, unstably laden, hurtling down the line?
Its final stop a place called Death, which exists only in mind.
Like gnats, buffeted by fickle Wind.
Some god’s whim shaking even the mightiest of kings.
In unworldly metal tubes with wheels and wings,
defiant, to the heavens, go us ground-born things.
In pursuit of Earth’s unimaginable imaginings,
escaping, feverish, from all our happenings.
To be shaken, so violently, by lightest Breeze.
So small, so meaningless against Earth’s skin,
so fragile, so delicate: our woven dreams.
She dreams of living in the fields,
and I in the sea.
Where flowers can grow up around her,
and waves lap over me.
She dreams of Love’s soft meadows,
as I bathe in her joyful tears.
But we are only dreamers,
dreaming away our years.
“Alas!” they say,
“live within your means”,
“Impossible”, I reply,
“for we are driven by our dreams”.
Forget conformity and embrace your freedom,
live life on your own;
for if someone tells you long enough that you are a rock,
you will eventually turn to stone.
I seek you out in my dreams each night,
my one true love, my vision, my sight.
Twilight soft against your delicate skin,
though my longing touch, too rough and wandering.
Corridor after corridor, a labyrinth of mind,
following your footsteps, that I might again see your eyes.
Each night I dream, but I am back at the start,
holding your hand, as you are holding my heart.
But when I awake,
it always seems to be,
that you’ve crept out from my dreams,
and into bed beside me.
“Be compassionate to yourself. That means being gentle to yourself at times when you feel like being self-critical. Think what you’d say to encourage a friend in a similar situation. We often give far better advice to others than we do to ourselves.”