Fables and Revelations

Climbing to the top of the roof, There was no plan to ride on shooting stars To stand pouring over the dust of the past I turn around my hand caressing the vinyl Smooth against my fingertips The music is playing and the tune is so old And yet it sings of a time so cold Am I paying the price as the wheels turn and fit into the soft warmth of my lip? Sappho, my heart is racing Tell me in this myriad of space and time Where the rush of the world is undefined Hold me in your arms and tell me that everything is alright

He stands across a bowl of open sea gazing across the sea of time endlessly. The beach crawls away from his feet eroding into the silent sea. He holds his heart like a child with a pink balloon frightened of it being lost in flight. His life a mess of pick-up sticks and scattered views. He hides behind his looking glass and looks back at me wondering if there is anything beyond his life of fragile lines. His music woven into a mess of scribbles and mismatch lines, of sorrow, of anger and an endless wall of pain. His mirror speaks with reverence of his mistakes and his shame and his doubt. He’s hands stain with the soil and mud of his earth, and all he touches turns to dust. A lover of the earth but a poison to his land. His love a parasite, his beauty a curse and soul, a victim in a looking glass.

Can someone tell me now a way out of this? Sometimes I feel like the only one standing in the dark. How can you tell me that I am the only one, the only one standing up to the fury before me. When will I learn from the many touches of the flame. The bridges falling around and tearing away from me. What was I trying to achieve? What was I trying to build? A house of cards caught up in the embrace of the monstrosity of the wind? The child can feel me still, yet can’t see what one leaves behind, blinded by the house of cards. No one is ready for the damage that the papercuts lay, but to a child it’s all just play.

Swimming on the river that shimmers in the pink of summer, liquid fuchsia roll down her soft supple skin. I watch as she drive into the great unknown, her voice oozing with happiness like the soft centre of a strawberry bubbleyum gum, like the luscious soft centre of a twinkie filling. Her eyes twinkling with excitement as she touches her prize like the millions bulbs in the Christmas lit up in town. I am blind to her presence but I can only imagine the happiness and joy that rolls off her lips. I miss her.

Sitting on the kitchen bench withering away in a beautiful silence, quietly, gently, in a handsome slumber staring out into the world beyond through the glass window. The doorknob, it was cold, hard, metallic, I touched it and froze, the air like a lead balloon. It never felt so cold to touch, drench in the icy depths of the ocean arms, the air was heavy, like a lead balloon and the world stopped, trapped in time for the moment. I couldn’t take another step; I just couldn’t take another step. The thud that my hand had made on the door handle as it refused to budge echoed, like a lone child trapped in a cave dropping her lunchbox. It seemed to have bounced off invisible waves. That moment was traced and memorised in the back of my mind, the unforeseen.

Pies, Kiwis and Company, tells a tale of restless souls, of adventure, battles and sorrows. The humble beginnings of life’s greatest wonders and the sweetest of songs, of preservation and hearts that are so worn out they cannot be carried by anyone, much less be carried alone. See and cherish the soul behind the mirror, the wall, see what is kept hidden and forgiven, the bitterness, grief and loss. A battle that cannot anymore be, as they prepare to pocket the change in their eyes and sail across the lonely river, the silent unbearing light now only a flicker. The strength behind like a thousand giants relentless in their embrace pushing up against the mountains, that rises higher to the heavens with each passing moment.

There always this one question that keeps the hearts weeping like an open sore, that all we have for nothing and all we have loved is just a hollow breath of the dying. The freedom to fly, to heap off the mountains and glad into the stars, to touch the cold lonely moon and touch the dust of tomorrow ours to hold yet do we really know what’s in the heart of another.