Scribbled Thoughts

A man you never knew is now

demanding you know him.

You stare back, unchanging.

His eyes move away but the smile

does not waver.

A life-time ago this man

loved you, cradled you

with a stranger’s touch.

A phantom in your life

wearing that smile.

A hand reaches out but

stops before it connects.

The smile intensifies.

A day later you try to remember

why you should hate him.

When I see you embrace

I know that, like me,

no one had to knock you down,

you’re already falling.

You’re trying to follow in his footsteps,

echo the pace of his long gone footsteps.

Small fingers struggle to tie the laces,

secure your feet, imitate his footsteps.

Wishing for a father who would have stayed,

Too young to protest against his footsteps.

Your feet are too small to fit in his shoes,

your posture too weak to hold his footsteps.

Years later, he’s gone but the shoes remain,

tempting you to slip into his footsteps.

Stepping into his shoes, they’re still too big.

You can never follow in his footsteps.

I limit you to reality,

force you down with truth.

My direct and cold honesty

can’t be warped from view.

Look at me in puddles,

pot surfaces or mirrors,

I am still relentless,

I am still here.

An urgency that’s not mine plagues my mind.

Within my own skin his emotions flow.

My story you’ll tell, yours is left behind.

In the darkness I stumble, try to find

a pen and paper, a world I must show.

An urgency that’s not mine plagues my mind.

His journey affects me, with each new bind

he creates, an escape route I must sew.

My story you’ll tell, yours is left behind.

He grows, becomes strong while I stay behind

him, bent close towards the ground, remain low.

An urgency that’s not mine plagues my mind.

If I had control one day would I find

my own personality I could show?

My story you’ll tell, yours is left behind.

My creation, the story of my mind,

Do you see me as an ally or foe?

An urgency that’s not mine plagues my mind.

My story you’ll tell, yours is left behind.

I wish I could be a fly on the wall

and watch you, now you’re away from home.

A black smudge on flat paint, you’re not alone.

I will not be shooed out into the hall

with a weak promise that you’ll call.

My presence shown by the vibrating tone

of wings as I move through this space unknown

 to me. I fly out of your reach, waiting on the wall.

I can crawl in the corner of your eye

and impress my image so it won’t leave.

You can’t pack your things, walk away, assume

that I will let you go. Don’t say goodbye.

I followed you, I will make you believe

and see that I am the fly in your room.         

Feathers of fire claim my body

and shrivel into black ash

that longs to

catch on the wind.

A cry from my scorched

throat, never answered.

The scent of spring around me;

I smell only burnt flesh,

melting skin.

Evaporated tears can’t

heal me, it will only

take the pain

of others until my

life ends again.

Rebirth.

Bones knit together,

flesh emerges and

covers.

Colour has not

returned, that will

come back in time.

I am plucked and

soiled with soot.

Newly formed limbs

tremble and shuffle

in the centre of ashes.

It’s too heavy to push

aside, choking

away my breath

but unable to kill me.

Rise from the ashes they say.

My fingertips grow numb as warmth leaves my

body. My eyes acknowledge hateful stares

until a hovering vulture swoops, pries

them from the sockets. Each retina tears

under its merciless beak. Lies formed from

my tongue turn to insects, feasting, picking

away the fragile skin. My ears felt wrong

to hear laughter. Only the ticking

time of my cursed presence should be heard. So

I cut them off, letting blood flow and mess

up the earth’s floor. I am buried just low

enough to smell damp mud and rotting flesh.

The dead don’t feel, but I’m rotting alive.

For my sin, forgiveness can’t be revived.

The scent of salt, always

in the air, makes me gag.

The seagulls’ screeches pierce through

my skull and the painkillers won’t stop it.

The one painting on the cream wall is

permanently tilted, the once proud

ship now sinking, but never

submerged. Never resting.

The strong smell of coffee mixes

with salt and clings to my clothes,

refusing to leave me.

He’s been dead two years, but

his red and white checkered apron

is still behind the counter, always

catching my eyes and drawing me in.

How I long to leave this place,

his café left to me, where only

the seagulls are free to

fly away.