Exhibition

Awoke this morning, malady making
A stronger case Than sanity.
I chose the latter unfortunately.
No freedom in sanity, no peace in malady.
A finch, like a strange fruit; a rancid, Feathered plum on the tree outside.
It was chirping a tune about panic.
I listened gravely to its gipper melody,
We communed a torment whilst I ate porridge and panicked.
Another day another failed opportunity to perish interestingly.
The lingering migraine I had been accommodating Finally packed its bags and left this morning.
I'll miss the conversation,
I'll miss the facsimile.
Doldrums gestated in the smog mock a fantasy of shore,
The witches will be burnt but we'll not blacken Our hands.
She is beautiful, yes, but there is more.
She has that smile.
She is a poet and that smile is her sonnet.
She paints a masterpiece,
Those lips are her brushes.
The rapture she composes is momentous, the smiles Are cacophonic miracles,
They ask the unfeeling to respond lest they never know this joy.
Would you live and not know this joy?
Could you live and not know this joy?
Do you breathe without tasting the air?
Do you care?
Passive.
Tepid.
Deceased.
Taste nothing...
Feel nothing...
Care not...
He is beautiful, weaving himself through a Causeway of invisible obsticles in a jaunty, Frenzied motion.
Not for a milisecond is there irony.
He knows something.
Two punches, left-right, cross-hook, into the bag.
He knows something.
A kick, shoulder height, sparks and stars fly Away from the impact.
He knows something...
One twin looks into the face of another.
Twins are mirror images,
Put through different sequences of experience,
Different filters of reality,
Are they the same person or are they brothers?
In the Danube summer the wind whips up over the Brush and drapes a sheath of dust over us.
We glitter before the deltas and we shine by the Tributaries but our glow is'nt visable,
The hawks in the trees sing to one another,
Tell tales of where the best game can be hunted,
The sun dips low and that sky that is not yet Azure-black has bled in a plethora
Of red and amber hues...
The wind calls a thousand tones of silence, Touches the skin with crowded definitions of Chill and it is alive here in this place.
A fish leaps from the water and for a second only It takes flight,
Then back down it goes to head upstream.
The door closed upon a migrant hound begging for Somebody to save it.
The hound watched, disturbed as the creature Retreated into its shell...
And on the flip side of this distress we of Course find joy...
And dreams may come with smiles,
Distress may be a tale that fear whispers to hope And we may all be lost,
Wandering along these scars etched upon the earth.
We may all fail in finding that smile we Recognise as masterpeice,
But worry not,
There's always hope.