Drowning in the half light

Black shadows cross the living room floor

Like evening crows, and rest upon the splayed book

Resting at the centre of the oak farm house dining table.

There are no voices telling stories from past days

Just memories of people who passed through

And like words, drew strength from each telling page.

A picture of the last supper hangs surreal on the wall

Beginnings were delightful, children’s play

Would fill its rooms and all the delights of spring

Would cascade through an open window.

Now the blinds are shut tight. It’s dark as coal

And death fills the void like discarded coffee in a cup.

Everything buried beneath blankets of darkness as a flickering candle

Searches for air to grow into sustained life.

I used to dream about becoming human in an inhumane world

Where the atmosphere would give support to new worlds

And abundant growth. A youth where nothing would temper me,

All around me vibrant and dazzling like shards of yellow and white

Where the chance to be human was like a life breathing vessel,

A new chapter appealing with intrigue as my life’s pages turned.

As I grew from a boy at my mother’s side

To a man standing in wasteland

Up to my neck in the sorrow I now call my world.

I would view this drowning position

With resolve but no calm

As changing winds would batter me

I became accustom to their blows

And reach for a hand of anyone who might care.

Time has a habit of changing things, change is inevitable

Like hands on a working clock refuse to stay still.

Yet the clock does not move just the hands jarring ever forward

Never getting tired all ways constant, all ways moving the light

Towards the darkness of a future which grows ever cold.

My life is a shadow in a half-lit room

Where identity is lost and nothing develops or grows

Like the book splayed and crucified upside down

Its spine stretched and aching to just let go.

On the oak farmhouse dining table

With no life around it just lonely shadows in a room

Reminding me I’m getting frailer and old.