Zimmer

Shadows loom, rising of the credits,
Black on white, a mirror, a reflection,
Zimmer’s instrumentals play, note by note,
Fast to slow, hard to soft,
Each one telling its own story,
Yet all piecing together to tell mine,
Or least the story my mind wants to unfold…

Standing in the dark, counting the seconds,
Waiting for the moment when a point is revealed,
Examining the faded stamps on my right hand,
Hoping there is more to life than fancy clicks
And tuxedo t-shirts that intrigue without substance,
Yet convey the split mentality of someone who acts without thought,
Having once been the most remorseful reckoner in my world…

Competing aspirations cloud and confuse any lingering hope of clarity,
Everyday envisaging a new entity to become entwined with, a new fantasy,
Every night harbouring a fresh dream to fritter the day away contemplating,
With each new dream being as unlikely as its predecessor,
Causing pen to touch paper, fingers to touch keys,
Expressing the delirium and disillusionment equally through words,
Which in themselves hold ideals of a purposeful tomorrow…

Yet, as Zimmer’s orchestra escalates in volume,
And decelerates in tone,
Yet, as the credits conclude, bringing the death of surrounding silhouettes,
And the light reluctantly returns,
Yet, as the window is tentatively opened to its widest, inviting the night time inside,
Allowing the moon and stars the chance to voice condescending opinions,
It becomes coldly clearer and clearer that words are too a dead end in these times…

And while gazing over the locality and its dominating centre…
The epiphany strikes that seclusion from soul searching is the only end…
There is no escape from here or I.