THREADS OF AN OLD LIFE

they told us to just

“go back”

like it was nothing

and everything was going

to be fine.

and it would all be

“normal.”

“let’s just get back,

y’know,

to the way things were.”

and what way is that,

exactly?

run into the ground.

weak.

exhausted.

completely burnt out.

although,

i did try

at first,

to simulate

a life vaguely resembling

the one I remembered.

gathering those

old threads

to weave

into something

new.

but the result was patchy

and threadbare.

what was once deemed

beautiful, now ugly.

something else was

mixed and woven

into my skin.

and the more i

resisted, the more it

pulled and tugged and

bled, as i refused to

accept the foreigner

that was squatting inside

me like a toad.

dark days realised.

but i needed

leverage to reach

the blue dome above.

and to land on jagged

rocks at the bottom is often

the only escape.

you can always look up

when you’re down

and witness the vast

expanse of

studded stars.

poem #7

forgotten

like a forgotten museum,
having remained hidden 
and undisturbed.

i was stepping back in time.
everything veiled in a misty film
caused by years of damp.

dozens of books 
and a variety of objects; 
pieces of furniture,
remained exactly as left.

my nose grew irritated
and itched insatiably. 
the pungent, cellar like aroma - 
musty, rotten, damp.
my tongue tasted the mould.

the wooden floor felt spongy
and bounced beneath my feet,
a spring in every step
as i walked inside.

his desk as he left it.
letters strewn, half written.
in the corner, a framed photograph.
so he did love, after all.