There is meaning, and meanings 
hidden amongst the glyphs 
and white spaces 
separating this from that, us
from
them, 
and the new lines 
and new pages
intrinsic to every separation. 
My meanings safely stored
where you fear to go,
behind the veil of the ordinary 
a graveyard of the fallen thoughts,
fallen hopes and the glue 
that once bound them; truth
is found on the back of a sticky note,
a remnant of a binding gone wrong
where only fluff remain.
There is meaning, and then
— there is not. 

Friends and fading friendships,
like sailing through foggy harbours
horns blasting without ears to see
the fleeting thoughts of a captain
steering, staring, starring 
in a final voyage across the seas; 
hazy dreams and backs slapped 
figs imagined and shoulders tapped;
friends and fading friendships
like bracken without snowmen dancing,
like a wave from an armless man
to an armless woman
walking slowly across the frozen ice
in the harbour of inescapability. 

You said I was cursed to love in darkness,

but I carry matches, candlesticks, torchlights, high powered LEDs, road legal lasers (and the ones burning truths into the back of your mind); I will love in light one day, one of these days, or part of a day maybe, mornings before 7? For an hour, or less? Can I have a passing thought of love and light, please?

You said I was cursed to love in darkness
— but I refuse. 

A life at the end of the road, a gravel path 
leading from somewhere to nowhere;
I watch myself watch myself
smiling as the dust settles,
the spring bulbs emerge from the frozen
and the summer meadows bloom. 
I would be happy there, in the other world,
in their world …
meandering through the pines 
and fir forests, golden berries of clouds
and golden mushrooms hiding;
I would be content there
at the end of a road 
— leading nowhere. 

I wasn’t just having a bad day,
the last snow had melted and the sun
never rose above the horizon. 

I wasn’t just having a bad day,
shades of grey stained the sky
and people faded into ghosts. 

I wasn’t just having a bad day,
echoes of the perished ones
reverberated like gongs at night.

I wasn’t just having a bad day,
the exit of the labyrinth of night
was lined with gleaming knives. 

I wasn’t just having a bad day,
blunt utensils and silverware
mixed with scents of cinnamon. 

I wasn’t just having a bad day,
suppressed-memories jokes
lingered like mist in early morning. 

It wasn’t just a bad day, it was a day
like every other.