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.

 

 

 

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.

Speak True My Friend

To speak
With false voice.
And smile
With false joy.
Is a skill to be
Cultivated
And cared for.
Yet to write
With fake words.
And a stolen style.
Will lead only
To revelations.
And tangles
Of lost souls.

The Answer Tree

I found an answer tree
Once some time ago.
It looked like a normal
Slender silver birch
When I stopped to
Think for awhile.

I asked a question aloud
And to my surprise
The tree grew a new
Silky leaf. It unfurled
Revealing inside an answer
To that which I had uttered.

The tree never failed
From that day on
To give me the reply
I needed, wanted or
Had to hear.
My life was changed
Beyond all imagination
Days full of knowing,
Pain and achievement
Flew on by.

Until that one awful day.
I returned faithfully
Fully of curiosity.
To find all my answers
Brittle and withered
On the ground.
As the wicked woman
Of autumn stole my
Power from me.