I dropped the night
Into a watery sky.
And watched
it’s inky fingers spread.
Stains across the sun.
And smiled.
As I realised,
Silence was falling.
Broken only by the soft
Sighs,
Of those who missed
The light.
A little drop
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Author Archives: catlholt
Rule
I think I swallowed a demon.
Snuck on a spoon or washed on a wave of tea. A tiny black, what else would it be, demon that took up residence in a small shadowed corner of my mind.
Every little wrong, any stupid human blunder he snatched with little clawed hands and nibbled at me round my edges.
So my demon got fat. And my demon got strong. The little wrongs grew big but only on the inside. The blunders became failures, each more predictable than the last. I knew I would fail before I even began.
The memory of my demon is great. Any humiliation, fall, mockery or mistake is there in cinema-screen-full-HD-on-demand whenever you don’t want it. He projects it behind my eyes.
And so it goes. On and on again.
Now my demon is fat and content, lounging like the old king he is. He rules with the wave of a hand, a short cold laugh and one cruel word.
I am paralysed. A subject, obedient. Because I once swallowed a demon.
But content kings grow lazy. No reign can last forever.
Quietly, there will be an army.
I Am Undone
A knot
untied.
A tangle
unravelled.
By the soft pull
of silence.
To a clarity
that lets me see.
There is a world
not my own.
Aspired
Your bones
Cling still
To that wall.
A forever scene
Of your
Last stand.
Bleached,
The colour of time.
A pale reminder
That you tried
To climb higher
Than anyone
Is allowed.
What it is to ask
Will you make me a promise?
– A lie for you
To never get old.
But always be there.
Stay as strong as you are.
And as weak as me.
Will you make me a promise?
– A gift for me
To be everything I ask.
But more that I don’t.
Prop me up when I stumble.
Even if you fall.
Will you make me a promise?
– A story to tell
Never tell me the truth.
Even if I ask
– A heart to break
I Cannot Follow
On flew the bird,
Through bullets
Of rain.
Heavy and fat, on
Tiny bone and wing
Should snap.
Fierce drops try to hammer
Fragile life
To the ground.
Yet,
Unchanged, and elegant,
On she flies.
While I,
Am weighed down.
A thousand cold kisses
Have forced me
To stop.
Channel Up
My poetic
Brain
Is broken.
Sabotaged.
By the all hours convenience
Of the best in show,
Isn’t this emotional,
What a great time
We’ve had.
Brought to you
Proudly,
By the everyday
Power
To
Distract.
And We All Looked
Ordinary,
Not enough
Or too much.
Just.
Said the girl.
To
The obligatory
Boy.
In the hope
That he too
Was,
Just.
Now,
Said the boy.
Not for long.
Soon, I’ll be extra
Ordinary.
Just,
Unlike you.
Sigh.
Said the girl.
And looked
Again.
Vicarious
My claim over the dead
Is strong.
For each and every one.
I tasted all glory,
Basked in grace.
Loved the turmoil and
Gloried at destruction.
Deeply as if my own.
Even more so.
My claim over the dead
Is strong
For each and all to come.
And yet,
They do not argue
With me.
Gaps in the stars
The king,
who was old,
and had opened his eyes,
smiled at the small man
now sat in his palm.
The black only found in the
night’s middle, seen by
those with no reason to rest,
coloured the man’s skin,
eyes and clothes.
The sky of the lost in human form.
The king,
who was old,
and had few questions,
asked the small night-man:
“Why do you seek my company now?”
A voice, of whispering midnight leaves,
replied: “There is no reason for you now. And I am friend to the aimless.”
The king,
who was old,
but king none the less,
grew angry with the man made
from gaps between the stars.
“I have reason and need, to be here
and lead.”
Though in his heart he was tired,
and full from life.
The man stood, stretched his arms
wide, holding the vast night in
one small embrace. And told
the king: “The stars you see,
that burn so bright, grant wishes and save many more for morning light,
they left this world, oh long ago.”
Slowly, the king smiled, as a small
man of darkness curled up in his hand.
Finally to sleep.
The king,
Was never old
In the stories they told.
Then it Started 