Poetry: Selections from Antony Maher
A Human Curiosity
I like it when in a clear state of mind whilst eyes are closed, drifting, a startling twitch can encourage a formation of black and white lines, zig-zagging their way across your mind. Intrigued by death.
When in the still of the night a screaming catfight wakes you hastily, so much so that you jolt up from your bed in fear that it's your cat on the receiving end of an alleyway beating. Intrigued by death.
When nothing makes sense except a tedious tiring of your mind; an unforgivable ignorance toward the rest of the human race, including the ones you hold dearest, consumes you momentarily. Intrigued by death.
When a screaming baby squarks, shattering the silence of your street, and the darkness makes your mind wander into those lonely coves you don't ever want to visit. Intrigued by death.
Your heart beats with misery, and self-pity strangles each inhale you take, worry threatens every exhale and you cannot move through fear that one day you will no longer exist or feel this way - or even be here at all.
light sometimes evades the day
as if stolen by the lost, lonesome him
he, who also chooses to cut off and steal our tongues the thief!
eyes, like a rabbits, locked
in the middle of a dark road
in the line of tyres' sight, trapped,
scared and restrained by doubt
you'll find him at the back of the room,
in the darkness where the light doesn't shine
the silhouette closest and most comfortable
sharing an existence with himself.
that look of death
a lack of colour
an ill complexion
a sincerity in those shrinking eyes
the escaping darkness of a stolen soul
from a secret flaming pit,
the black hood sits, hacking at a set of chains
attempting to set himself free
around a hectic grenade
fingers tightly grip
I pull the pin but
forget to throw
the wind direction changed
a reflection in the mirror
a friend used him to gain
squeezed his hurt-lock trigger
falling down a mountain
pushed backward down a slide
jumping off a swing
positioned on a windy cliff-side
no-one else could see
whilst wearing a mask he hid
out of view, in his mind - a sea
a blade pulled from a drawer
fear helped to choose a knife
cheeks drowning in tears
anxieties taken out on life
holding himself hostage
tight skin fighting off the pressure
an accomplice in his hand
his wrist shook out a quiver
buckling under tension
a rip tore through his skin
blood appearing rapidly
his pain released again
bleeding out alone,
spilling out his dreams
in pools of red around him
fishes escaping from red streams
the wind dies down
a reflection in the mirror no more
Antony Maher is a writer from near Grantham, England. He writes to free-up space in the midst of an extremely hectic and chaotic (treasured) family life.
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