Caged

Snow in sheets sways so slowly
In the night’s breeze, lit up by its
Own startling brightness,
Allied, inevitably, by the glare
Of the surrounding street lights.
Each step on my long walk home
From the abandoned party is
Taken with petty caution,
When blatant disregard for all
Courses bitterly through freezing
Veins, filled with the stilted
Passion of everything which
Has been, and will be, lost forever.
Placeless and pace-less
(though not so far from my bed),
Every half-step forward
Represents two steps back,
As the ghost town of Clongriffin
Rises against me in terrible silence.
The few who live here resent me,
And I them, because our faults
Are never more exposed than
When intruded upon by a counter
(mercifully closed at this hour).
And those at the party, who
Supposedly stand by my side of
The bartering, are really no different,
Codded as they are by the
Folly of futile chases in the dark
When the shutters come down
And they all drink away their nights
(erring in lust where I lapse in love).
Wraith-like, I stalk the streets home,
Ever fearful of my past catching
Hold of me again, with every
Shadow a threat to my essence
(and each one ungraspable, too).
Deceitful is the path I tread,
But more treacherous is the truth
Enforced isolation brings to the
Thoughtful who should remain
Thoughtless for their own benefit:
That the fell chill choking my breath
Emanates from me myself and
Envelopes the genial snow and breeze
Around me, contorting its serenity
And coaxing it into becoming a storm,
The thundering crescendo of which
Blinds and cuts right through me
(just me).
And then I slip and crack a bone
In my left hand, the one I write with,
And this compounds the trembling
Misery both within me and without
(I never really made it home).

Birthday

The shifting climate produces
In the country a freeze which reflects
My reaction to everything these days.

I find myself possessed by the many
Insignificant and irreversible truths
Of my life, and am plagued by regret.

Hooked to my belt everyday is a pouch
Of salt so that a pinch is always within
Reach when something invariably rots.

And I have adopted a pessimistic view to
Every act of life because all I expect is for
Decency to give way to apathy in the end.

But then mother told me something which
Stopped my existentialism in its infancy:
That today is your birthday, Big Man.

It has only occurred to me how much
Of my life I have lived without
The advice of a father or father-figure.

And it dawns on me, too, how even
In death our relationship mirrors exactly
What we would have become regardless.

You and mother could never hear me
Scream or shout, or cry alone in the dark,
So what hope was there for conversation?

Though you never chose it to be this way,
You did choose to leave, and your departing manner -
Buried in silence, without a single word spoken.

And though mother tells me again
That today is your birthday, it makes no
Difference to the reality of my existence.

I went from seeing you once a week
To not at all, which was as easy a
Transition as one could ever ask for.

Mother feeds me and washes my clothes,
So while her and I fail to communicate on
A real level, she is there at the most basic.

You could not be here, Big Man, because
You chose to die instead of facing your issues
Like the man you were built up to be.

And I would be lying if I said a similar flight
Had never crossed my own mind - but your
Boarding it first is what keeps me breathing.

So at the third time of mother’s mention
I present to you your birthday gift today:
A thank you for playing a part in my creation…

And the truth that you will never define me.

Projections

Projections of us dancing
Flicker in my mind,
The circumstance, though,
Remains truthfully unkind.

We fell into arms to
The applause of our peers,
Yet our difference lies
In our gap of two years.

Our meeting has come
Too late in our lives,
And I listen with envy
To how your world thrives.

You whisper of your
Babies, man and boy,
And how they both bring
You an endless joy.

And as we sway gently to
A Christmas coming,
Your child’s virtue
Begins softly humming.

I held you first with
Selfish hopes of love,
But now context’s role
Shows me this is enough.

*

When the music stops
And the night ends,
You speak with passion
Of love and its trends.

An urge rises through me
Like a new day’s sun,
But my head rules my heart
And I fend off this one.

When you dismiss the flirts
Who chase all chances,
I learn, with silence,
To cherish our dances.

For while a kiss from you
Is all I really want,
Destroying your certitude
Would be an endless haunt.

So I hold off the urge
With repressed ache,
But a lesson is learned
From a subdued mistake:

In the end regret
Will always be rife,
So try to take comfort
When its reason is right.