AMThuree

When night fell, the city of stones drowned in darkness, of the kind that it was impossible to see anything ahead, except for a haphazard array of small lanterns, moving around, it appeared, independently. The lights were of different colours and sizes, ranging from blue through to yellow and red. Only a few ventured out at night, and those who did used whatever they could lay their hands on to make light, but light only strong enough to illuminate the immediate vicinity of travel. Navigation any further was undertaken from memory or by sense. But no-one could or really wanted to plot too far into the distance, because they had been raised on stories of just how that had all turned out..

Shape shifting their way like fog through the days, An invisible war has been fought for forty years By ghosts in disguise. They show you who they are everyday, If you dare to look past the costume. So, we stand in the blue chill of nothingness, And get drunk on peace.

Driving leisurely along country roads, she passed by familiar places and buildings, but most of what she had known had gone. She felt a sense of disorientation that prevented her from drinking up the detachment from her surroundings she craved. She was beginning to understand that thinking of life as a continuous problem to be solved had stopped her from making the most of the things she had been given by chance or design. Did she really want to stay to see how much everything had changed? She didn't. So she turned around. Her days of hunting for relics had ended.

What had previously only lived in her soul as an instinct, was now confirmed; that one day we will all walk among the ruins, in spite of our best efforts to resist; carrying with us a vague hope that we will be the first to defy what we see before our eyes. Now she was shackled to this knowledge for a lifetime, and the only thing she felt able do was to keep returning, to stare at the stones.

Dead are the days That are never ending. Wretched is the winter Of our hours. Sorry is the sky of All our mornings. Numb is the night That keeps us still.

The crime Structured to be solved Resolution played out Again and again. Saved, of course, On page and on screen. Everyone assured That judgement is sound. The murderer caught The innocent absolved. Sunday evenings sorted, Then tea, conversation, And biscuits all round. There may be twists New themes explored Things stolen But always found. Anything can be changed To hold us still Except the ending Always tied Too tightly. So tight, I can't move But I can still see the world. As I wait for the train To again come round.

The cloak of loneliness was a distant weed. Something only half comprehended, Barely regarded. Pondered on but not yet worn, Let alone handed down. In the shade of spring Everything stretched ahead, And there was no rush to get home.

Benevolently It descends. A half-memory I can't quite Recall, Which still Surprises, As if Something Has already Happened. There is no Uneasiness, And the Silhouettes Disappear When I try To touch them. But this is how I want it To be.

Soon the fog will lift And the sun will Tear into Another day. Reaching into The infinite Beyond oneself, The space on The other side, Is limitless In its nothingness. And I long to close The door.

There is no symbol here. No infinite reaching To the farther side. No secrecy Or sacred rites. Patterns of thought And feeling Comfortably cease. There is no need To seek the sky, Or what's beyond. There is already Light enough To see.