Lost in Wonderland

The Looking Glass 

Alone – in a crushing, faceless sea. 

Trapped by the looking glass – a mirror for the universe, 

The hidden door all around us.

Egress for the soul, 

Keeping a universe at bay.

Rush headlong and drink its world in. 

Lose yourself in its seductive charm. 

Fly through a one-way entrance, 

Through a screen door forever ajar –

to a world locked away

A rushing flood – 

Draining beat-by-beat, humanity’s heart. 

None care break free from its seductive chain. 

On the way down, we rush everlong – 

into the seductive rabbit hole. 

Through the looking glass we go –

Racing to a rocky bottom

Hiding a lonely place of dying.

There we wait, to wither away 

And fritter away our joyful youth. 

Head bowed, and led astray

By lifeless bright lights that hold

Plastic memories and dreams. 

Headlong and headstrong–we come of age 

Ensnared by jailers we chose – trapped in a looking glass

Death and its spiral

Harlequinade, or Of Happy Nights and Dark Days

CURTAINS

Harlequinade – A mannequin world,
A cruel, dim stage devoid of life.
Actors wearing dark, twisted masks
Hideous smiles frozen in pantomime.

Smiles hiding darkness
perverting laughter and mirth
Smiles that never reach the eyes
while the knife quietly slips deep.

Never fear–the dam breaks
The curtain slips, all is laid bare 
To see, the darkness in their hearts
Glimpsed on their faces

The Phantom within

The Grand Lie

Pro patria mori

The witless few who clap and cheer,

The pitiless many who laugh and sneer,

And send sons and daughters to be martyrs–

To give their lives for worthless barters.

Pray thee you never have to tell,

Their dear mothers of their last living hell.

War, that cruel game – dreamt by the old,

played by youth, whose bodies are sold

Youth – who live and die and fight,

And watch their youth fade into night.

Who sleep a fitful sleep beneath skies

That burn cruel like a fever that never dies

For all they give, we ask for more,

In this, our headlong match to war.

So smile, you few, who still can–

At the folly of the beast called man.

You witless few, who clap and cheer,

You pitiless many who laugh and sneer,

Pray thee, you never come to know,

The hell to which in life and death they go.

Nevermore, except forevermore

Killer and the Saint: A Novella

Tender flesh, waiting -

For the dropping Guillotine -

Eyes Blank, Wide Open

–     Technicolor Dreams

Chapter 1: Two-Face

The actors of life

Have their frozen smiles trapped as

They wait their cue to

Join its vicious cabaret

-       Technicolor Dreams

Marais, First and Queen Mary, 2057

The frozen hell called winter lingered on interminably; an endless ordeal that was only barely endured. In these parts of the world, 6 months of bone-chilling cold followed by 6 months of sweltering heat had become the new normal. Everyone had long ago gotten used to it.

The man in the black trench coat stood statuesque at the corner of First and Queen Mary Boulevard, his breath visible in the soft, pale, February moonlight. The thin trench coat seemed to envelop him, a tarp over his slight, insignificant figure.

The constant puffs of breath were the only signs of life in the cold, lonely night.

His mind worked feverishly even in the still silence. His eyes carefully scanned the landscape while he retrieved memories of happier days, hidden in the tombs of distant time.

Of Lost and Forgotten Trains

Locomotion

Where does the locomotive go...

what does the locomotive do...

when life takes away its stations,

and fate steals its tracks?

It breaks free...

Of Grief and Relief

Heavy Seas

Thunderstorms of life and love,

Pregnant with meagre relief - 

rain upon this scorched

and parched earth

Storm coming. Batten down the hatches!

Of Reality and Fantaseas

Perchance to Dream of Electric Sheep

Fuzzy as dreams

seen from miles away - 

Trapped within the seams

of who I am but cannot say.

'Snared in a fortress so digital, 

analog won't let me go.

Yet - like a lost boy so mythical,

I wait. For a yesterday, I do not know.

World, Out of Focus 

Writer's Note: Re-edit of an older piece to attain a proper abab rhyme scheme. An ode to feeling out of place, an ode to time, out of joint.

Of Sticks and Stones, and Broken Bones

Superhero

The sticks and stones are broken,

and the dirt is in your eye

but the heart has spoken

and it will ne'er die

Fright(ful) night
When love was lost

Howling Winter Wind

Fury

Winter's howling winds

Blow the Old Man's deepest breaths

into weary lungs

Something to talk about, a Story to tell...

The Outcome, if you so choose it.

This is a true story. For what that’s worth, and what difference that makes, is anyone’s guess.

The World is a strange place, populated mostly by strangers and strange people.

This is not a perfect world. It is the world we have – often devoid of reason and empathy; a world without solidarity; an unfair, often cruel world.

It is not a perfect world, but it is the world we have.

Before, I launch into my story, some perspective might be important. The thoughts that follow are mine and mine alone. I would not dare speak for anyone else.