The Erratic Circus
Greenlighter
It gathers itself into a fist and never lets go
Even though the certainty is deeper than a breath held.
Clearer than the representation of truth or beauty
I still turned when the trickery of light made you seem whole again.
It’s only when realisation drops heavy stones upon
the glass moon of my hope.
Only then.
When just two notes of song re-deliver the heartache that took 16 months to stay hidden.
Begging for more time but prepared to give all time back and be gone to
the ghost in a smile
a small swerve in a pulse, hardly noticed, always needed.
In every moment still alive
Not forgotten
Filling the holes where moral conscience once lived.
It’s a yesterday that wont be torn down
Not to make way, or to give space or to be unconsidered
To always mean nothing less than a whole fucking world
Those spaces now existing where words ran, pauses roamed and laughter wheeled
Nothing now replacing the unintentional ending of such continuity
Except maybe a shift from real to symbolic
The biological function of nature, undertaker of memories
It drapes like a flag to cover the holes left and, turning, salutes to time
the ancestral counseller, methodically scrubbing and washing
then to one day lift its head and leave.
We never see it depart or feel it prepare to
If we did, it would still be there.
Even though the certainty is deeper than a breath held.
Clearer than the representation of truth or beauty
I still turned when the trickery of light made you seem whole again.
It’s only when realisation drops heavy stones upon
the glass moon of my hope.
Only then.
When just two notes of song re-deliver the heartache that took 16 months to stay hidden.
Begging for more time but prepared to give all time back and be gone to
the ghost in a smile
a small swerve in a pulse, hardly noticed, always needed.
In every moment still alive
Not forgotten
Filling the holes where moral conscience once lived.
It’s a yesterday that wont be torn down
Not to make way, or to give space or to be unconsidered
To always mean nothing less than a whole fucking world
Those spaces now existing where words ran, pauses roamed and laughter wheeled
Nothing now replacing the unintentional ending of such continuity
Except maybe a shift from real to symbolic
The biological function of nature, undertaker of memories
It drapes like a flag to cover the holes left and, turning, salutes to time
the ancestral counseller, methodically scrubbing and washing
then to one day lift its head and leave.
We never see it depart or feel it prepare to
If we did, it would still be there.
