by Anthony Mason
Wasted dreams foretold
in the eyes of children.
As the sparkle fades over the years
the sadness remains.
A still burning dead star,
but on the horizons of repetition,
reawakened is the wisdom of youth.
The world stands still for a moment
as a brief glimpse of your life flashes by
like the look of a lover in the window
of a departing train,
and the emptiness thereafter.
We sway indifferently towards an end
like seaweed wavering in a timeless ocean,
fingers reach out as if emerging from rubble-
in realization, to grasp for dreams.
The voice of visionaries as boundless
as the skies of tomorrow
connected with the grey skies of yesterday.
The velvet shadows of my presence
etched into the fabric of time
like footprints fading in the snow.
The pain carved
onto my skin to install wisdom
so that with me, as me;
the universe can analyse itself-
mirror on mirror.
The grace of lions, the sigh of rain,
the twitch of a hand in yours
and the laughter of children
-all essences of life, as one;
unframed art in this limitless place
where from everything divides
and where everything must return.
flutter, flicker in my conscious,
without voice, without complaints.
…and moments of clarity
– always silent
like ticker tape falling
over the muted crowds.
A snowman melts in the garden
watched from a solitary window
by its friend, a young child.
Quietly, he scribbles on paper
in the same way a clock ticks
and foil decorations twirl
in an empty room.
A hit-man converses with god.
A ghostly janitor sweeps up words
as autumnal leaves scatter in the wind.
Clouds grimace casting
shadows over silent graves.
Insects emerge from flowers
in their strange world.
It was you who was the stranger;
and this was your home.