The Colours of My Day

The look, the clothes, the walk. Creating one strength, a new creation in one who was created. It was on Moore Street, though there had been travelling involved. They should have built a theatre there all of those years ago when Dublin was the capital of Europe in this way. But that was long before the journey, from the east I think, that was the direction left, departed. And the traveller must have felt quite unique in this other place, a star of a show in meagre surroundings. Money was the motive of course, the reason why. I've tried to imagine that place, but I can't even seem to be able to pronounce its name. There was a visitor here, I could see the homelessness in their scare. I said 'hi' in welcome, but no-one was there. I opened the door as a friend, with a smile and a wink, I got the faintest smile back, and a city in the east came alive for a while, early in my day. I'd been shopping for some food and going nowhere and lonely grafitti told me to 'sympathise, there's separation here, you have to realise.' And blues played in an evening where I used to live before, I mainly just listened though I can't say that it spoke to me and I'm not sure if I even interpreted it as music, and I wondered about connecting the east and the blues, and the guy in the hat with my girl, I just slipped through the curtain when the scene was played out and walked into my mind again and changed the colour of my day.

A Light for the Candle

Passion doesn't tell right from wrong. It lives in the moment. Its soul is fire and the fire has no mind. Underlying dream tells its truth in the welcome slumber. Awareness is suggested. It stands in the shadows of heat. A doorbell stranger with eyes in your eyes threatens to disturb your concealment. The noise of the street is begining to be heard. A child awakes to the suckling mother. There is war in the world and madness is on the stage, and they are dancing in the aisles. Definition is unsure, understanding is impossible. Confusion screams at the overwhelmed. What once was love has become a fleeting glance, eliciting words that should not have been said, and kisses that shouldn't have been kissed. Truth has been eclipsed in the crazy nighttime, and the day has come to hide. The day where once we cared and were loving. There is not an understanding silence, but a refusal to answer. There is nowhere to run, and passion grows red when seen in the mirror, and asks for forgiveness and offers to help. The fire turns to the summer and the summer speaks to the heart from the heart of love. Somewhere there is a warm embrace and a kiss that should be kissed and the words of feelings are tacitly accepted by a grateful stranger. The world has become undead. This world is full of strangers, its the point where music brings a light to the candle.

After Sleeping on a Sleepy Day

I wonder what the magpies saw in the sleeping day of intermittent rain. There were two of them, I was sleeping in the sleeping day too, at least my mind told me so, when I had looked back on the recent past of the day. I remember that I hadn't thought about what I had been thinking. I angered inside I showed it to the congregation. The evening beckoned, the rustling leaves were dancing for me. A mighty tree, overpowering showed its strength to me. I could only wonder within its majesty. I am the moneylender and I'm closing the door. I had thought about what I was thinking, and then I thought about what I had done. The instruction book was thrown from me about the day I was born, and from my memory, but the seed within continues to grow and explain to me, perhaps like the mighty tree to its rustling leaves. There is no denying imprint. There is no way clear that is a way clear. I doubt if tomorrow will be a sleeping day. There's a cloud in my head and its raining outside.

Hunger of the Eyes

Its easier to look into the soul of an attractive woman, or try to, or pretend to. What are you doing when you gaze into the eyes of someone? What are you hoping to find? What is it possible to find there? Perhaps we get closest to those who are closest to us. Perhaps they are easier to discover. So there can be a forever stranger, someone you can't find an understanding of. You can romance their mystery, yet mystery is insincere and untruthful. But mystery is a magnet, is a lure, when it holds no answers, just possibilities. Unless of course a mystery is unravelled right before your eyes.