Spiritual Rigor Mortis

When I hear children playing
But can’t see them,
I picture them
Running around in a garden,
And then I think of my own
And wonder if they too are happy.

Then I become morose.

How my face must look like death
As I dwell in the madness,
Knowing her scornful plan
To set them against me.

To come out of the void
I pray that they are well,
Being loved
Well fed
Warm and happy.
When I pray for her scorn to be lifted,
That she too is happy and well,
I start to feel human again.

When I see children playing
Say, in the park,
I think of my own
And as I watch them play,
I become entranced
And imagine that they are my girls,
Beautiful blonde locks
Cheeky smiles and crazy faces,
Running and laughing together.

Then I imagine that people are watching me,
Thinking the worst.
I look around for adults
And smile at them
But there is nothing.
How long was I watching the children?
Maybe the parents are thinking;
What is his plan?
Better keep an eye on him.

About four years ago,
I saw a child of no more than two
Alone at a pedestrian crossing
On a busy street in Battersea.
I did nothing to help,
A passenger in a car,
And now I am haunted by this child.

On an ordinary day,
When a child looks at me and smiles
I smile back shyly,
With my chin in,
But then I wonder
Should I have smiled?
Did I do something wrong?
Will someone call the police
Because I smiled at a child?

When I hear a child cry
I hone my hearing.
If I listen hard enough
I’ll know if it’s in danger.
It should have stopped by now.
Someone is coming, surely,
But the child keeps crying.
My mind plays tricks
And I fear the worst.
Should I call the police
Because I’m worried about a child?

To calm my mind
I pray for this child
As I pray for my own
And as my mind clears
The child stops crying.

When I watch the news
And see the children of Africa,
The madness returns.
The flies on ashen lips,
Mothers holding their beautiful babies
Knowing they will perish
And I want to scream.
To give the madness reason,
I blame the rich
Who want their crop unspoilt
By the carcasses of famine,
But hatred is no better than madness
And I have to look away.

Again I feel like death,
No point in looking in the mirror;
A sick schismatic
My eyes the scraped out holes
From where I belong;
My head a skull.

As I search for peace
I feel hopeless,
But then I think of my girls,
How they’re safe and warm,
And I hope
They do not think too unkindly of me.