A layer of fog, worthy of London
though the city wasn’t.
I walked into it, hoping to be swallowed.
Though the night was set for horror,
street light slashed by tree branches
and every glow only making it harder to see
I was not scared.
There was nothing lurking in that darkness that could make my life more ordinary
and that was what I truly feared.
I am almost twenty-six
and I would rather face a dragon
than a life narrowed by envelopes with numbers
arriving in installments.
I followed the will-o-the-wisps
and willed they not be streetlamps
Thinking how Irish legends moved between worlds
I splashed in the puddles; no avail.
Last night an owl landed in my path and looked at me
its kill – a young hawk – in its talons.
I wanted it so much to be a sign
of – anything.
As invisible as I try to melt
I still pass a cafe, face a glimpse –
and my life twists up in my stomach, reminding me
I can’t escape that way for long.
Outside of what lies in,
beyond the scope of touch
we inner beings have
not one way of seeing
this uncharted being.
All our scripts of real
and imagery land on
some field of equated rippling
of other swim past
from age old energy.
This rim of unknown tongue,
sings lyric of quiet existence.
Unheard and untouched by
our small naturedness,
we walk through time,
deaf and blind, from worlds
beyond our realms of mind.
We may try with might and heart
to simplify this other’s dot-filled complexity.
But this world far beyond man’s mind
and soul is but a hard-core star
shining through snow’s indigo patterns.
Our sweet but tainted unother,
is but split from what we call other.