Ribbons and Lace

There is nothing to weep for, the time has long past us by. There is nothing to stamp on, the the creatures have scampered away. There are no tassels on the edges, no ribbons lined with lace. The day is off, tomorrow is on. Cross your heart, hope not to die, no precious words, no useless cry.

The Bitter Salts

The bitter salts are left to flutter like flickering lights, highjacking the wind to throw their shards at new homes. Formulate, if you will, and interview for yourself in ten years time. What would you say? Would you even need to say anything at all? Would one look at your decade plussed counterpart be enough to answer all your queries? Not a breath nor word need to be uttered but a look that says you’re going to be fine. Better than fine you’re going to get what you need, what you long for more than want.

If Only

Of all the McDonalds in all of the world, she had to walk into mine. It had been a full two months since the business in the countryside, and only now, once every day rather than once a minute did her face ever stampede into my mind, like a herd of wilder beast, and I had called myself quite settled. I was sat to the side, but quite near the front, so could see who came in and I could see who ordered. I myself was on a steady diet consisting of a large chocolate shake and an similarly named potato prepared side. I was at the end of my fries and was fishing at the bottom of the brown bag they had been sat in, searching for thy cheeky bonus you usually find, a few stray chiplets that have dived out of their red and yellow cardboard home. It's at a time when you think you've had the last, but a quick rummaged gifts you a welcome little surprise. But today, as if a precursor, the fortune telling fries, there was nothing at the bottom of my bag but emptiness. And then she walked in. Irony complete. What was it first that I noticed if not just her essence? It wasn't a mere feature as it was the conglomerate. If held to sword point I'd say it was the hair that first set it off. But on the canvas of a Van Gogh is it not the brightest colour that the admirer is first drawn to? Then the rest of her being flew into the space like a rushing skylark, simply beautiful. Her eyes did not see me but there presence was never a tone to be avoided, as it rang through the air so sharply, the sight of them both filled up my stomach and emptied out my lungs, a withered shell repaired now faced with what it was that shattered it in the first place. My skin contracted in a million different ways and the crackling fireworks retuned to my veins. I have no recognition nor inclination of how her head might have risen if she had seen me that day, if anything, and most likely, not at all. But all this was there for but an instant, a pure second, a fair blip that flashed indeed months of feelings all by my minds eyes with insurmountable speed but for an infinitesimal crumb of time. It was over. That was how things would most certainly stay. Time to get along with my day.

Call Me Anytime

You’ve still got my number. It’s the only thing you can’t take from me anymore, because you’ve already got it.

The Symphony of Madness

The Symphony of Madness bothers me greatly. Not only are parental role models dwindling as parents seem to be deciding with more and more steady regularity that they are more important than their little ones, but because of this and the ready availability of digital media, kids have all too ready access to the Populars, who the children are forced to substitute as their secondary mentors. The problem with this is that the Populars are anything but role models. They facilitate and promote an image of human beings that is not only irresponsible, but for a vast number of the general population, unattainable. For the most part the Kings and Queens are oblivious. They serve only as the pretty puppets for the machine operators to twirl and preen, fully aware that the damage they are doing is not only far from innocent, but boarders on destructive and criminal. S.H.

This Liquid Horizon

It occurs to me that under this liquid horizon that we so readily gulp down like it is the flowing juices of the Gods of the Populars that have so freely been crowned the Kings and Queens of a castle that never belonged to any of us in the traditional sense in the first place, that we not only risk leaving the sky dry for our children, but for the rest of anything as beautiful as they that could be left to be on this great place we call home. S.H.