The night is coming by Kismuki (Deviant Art)
Etched wooden chairs,
a French polished dining table, ambient candle lights.
Beyond the dining room
your mind plays on your fears, the shadows shift, move.
Petrified of the shadows,
a child too young to understand, darkness frightened you.
Enlightened by knowledge,
you face the shadows fearlessly, never taking a wrong step.
A touch along your neck,
terror has a name you remember, you run out into the night.
A windless cold night,
movement within the front trees, illogical ways of nature.
Those etched chairs,
your father died on one of those, too long ago, father.
A whisper on the wind,
something I heard you say long ago, “my darling daughter”.
Dressed in simple cotton robes, six gathered around the point of examination.
They hesitated. All were too afraid to touch such a foreign-looking living thing.
Braver than the others, one touched a branch a thumb. All followed, touching the last two trees.
Perspiration and a feeling of heat take hold within the stifling sheets.
Sleep comes slow, yet when it comes, events progress, and I’m standing in front of a light green house with gold-laced windows in a forest at the top of a hill at the end of a cul-de-sac.
Nothing makes sense, as a random stranger dances up with multiple women and says he’s been waiting for me to arrive.
Events progress, then I’m awake from one nightmare only to see something in the bathroom mirror. A heart can only miss so many beats as the sheets become a greenhouse.
Between the nightmares, your side of the bed is empty. You sit in another room playing a game at 2 am, while sleep is inevitable.
The professionals arrived to exhume bodies from an ancient grave.
The digging begins, and the bodies form a circle; in the middle sits the objects of worship, a large bag full of Tupperware.
Around the bodies, they find brochures, order forms, teacups, and a teapot.
The Anthropologist says, “
I believe this was an MLM gathering“.
The full sunlight on a late Summer’s day warms the house.
There is a feeling of change, for the sun is setting earlier, and a cool breeze touches the lounge. Chloe feels the breeze move along her naked skin as she relaxes on a Saturday afternoon with a coffee and a book.
Six ladies meet at the “Celebrity Chef No.269th” restaurant in Melbourne for lunch at 1 pm for the weekly catchup.
They greet each other in the usual manner; fake kisses, judgemental grins, too much make-up, and designer clothes.
Once seated, they order drinks and lunch to make themselves feel like they have to be somewhere important.
Now the little things are sorted, the dancing tongues begin a convoluted quickstep.
Controversial gossip and catty bitchery dances on their lips as they release their hatred for their husbands, their children, and life in general.
By the dessert menu, which they make a point of resisting, they’re ready for a massage and a line of cocaine.
Once, we stood with hope in our hearts, as we had a country of our own.
No longer treated as second class citizens by a collective hell, we thrived.
As the invasion takes hold, we think back to that rainbow and our country.
There’s only grey now, as history turns again.
A tree stood near our fence; we knew not what it was.
Winter came, then went, as Spring started anew.
The tree grew buds, which bloomed into flowers, as the
cherry blossoms moved and danced for us in that Spring.
Lonely, a solitary figure steps through the park full of songs and poetry.
There’s no money made from being soft and creative, yet he hopes for love. Penniless, he walks from window to window, attempting to serenade someone. He walks home, wondering why he was made this way.
You invited me to take a voyage on the notes you love.
We journeyed together, listening to the way songs changed over time; we embraced our favourites and kept an open mind.
Now, I remember you by a series of your favourite songs, which I sometimes play alone.