A word becomes me, in the greyness of a September
(Be it left behind on chalked paths in fading light, and closing buttercups)
I see here now the broken soar, and know the feeling of akin
To you, the word I cup in silent palms, and wish a peaceful journey


Too Grand

This fruit is far too grand

Exactly placed to centre here a pedestal of somethings…

These apples, polished red with a uniform of grapes

This conspiracy of colour seems to shout an afternoon

A royal scent of feast, and now my eyes begin to question…

How this knife looks like an omen, and this spoon, a metaphor for gaze

Where, I wonder where, is the inevitable bruising?

Or the flesh that sags and folds, just a little past its prime…

And then I see a sense of clinging close beside a fallen free

A bowl of contradictions where time ticks in silence

Yes, this fruit is far too grand and my moment calls for less

Now instead I see a universe, ripe with human muddle


Sometimes I feel like the human condition resembles parched soil; it’s relentless need for quenching. I appeal to your humanity. Do you have it?

The hopeless search for meaning. Is it hopeless? There is meaning in everything when interpretation and perception play their part. Defences of the psyche. Cynicism? Maybe…

The infinite emptiness of nothingness. What lies ahead as the ultimate destination. The void we wish to fill with magnificent ideals of elysium. Pessimism versus deluded optimism? Maybe…

Fear of isolation. What we require to build in metaphorical bricks and mortar to avoid those moments when we sit alone, with ourselves. Yet those moments, to me, are pure. Autonomy. Release from the shackles of existence. A real state of being. Reversed psychology.

The phenomenological stance – My experience is mine. You cannot replicate. How could you ever feel the exact same feeling I have for any human or otherwise moment?

Separation of selves. Individuals. Connections sought for reassurance in the bleak.

Yet I search for meaning. We all do, and will continue to do so. Unless you have fallen from the precipice of humanity. So I plead to yours. There is too much cold, weak, narcissism in this world already. When I look you in the eyes I am here, now, with only my self to show.

This is not poetry. It’s just a slice of self indulgent thought.


There has to be. Even in a moment of still, is there not an inevitable more?