Who, What, When? An exploration

The day that never was,
Was the one I lived yesterday
Alone, lonely;
Repenting,
My past,
My future,
My yesterday.

The day that never was
Swept me by.
A hailstorm,
Dust in my eyes.
The iris, wider,
The eyelashes, still thin.
The past. Today?

I don't know
What it was.
Where
When
And how?
Those hours
In my dreams
Another world
I don't know.

Was it?
Yesterday
Or today?
Will it be?
Was it?
I don't know.
It never was.
But it will be.
Today. A dream?

(Led on
And left,
Standing.
Under the sun,
Today, this song I sing.

The day that never was.)

The Dying Father and his Daughter

The room
Dense, empty, stark.
A voice echoed. Sudden.

'Pulse?'
'Negative, sir.'

'Love?'
'Was forever.'

'Laugh?'
'In fits.'

The room had lost its charm. She had gone. Was married away. There were no more memories.
Talks. Chatter. Conversations. It was lost. The charm had swept off. Another home, another place.
There was no answer. None to the doorbell too. It was a plain house. With no-one in it.
Except the ghost of some memories.

Sometimes I wonder how she is doing. Is she happy? Content. Does that word apply?
As I stand here, looking at that rickety old armchair, I wonder.

She had stood there, talked to me. Told me her last wish, to get married.
Love, she had whispered to me. The man, she had talked about him.

I had lashed out.

What else could a father do?

It took two minutes. The confrontation.
She walked out.
Independent women, I say.

I am Unique.

Unique?
With two ears,
Two eyes, a nose.
Unique, Okay.
Maybe, later?

Reality

The Clouds, pink,
An Earthy sky,
Walking stick figures.
It was all fine.
I was, blind. By birth.

Words, when they talk. To me.

Thin pages out of books
Smiling at me,
Alphabets,
Arbitrary
Yet together.

Reflections

He stood  there, leaning towards his left.
He stood there, straight. His knee was bent a little, to his left.

He smiled to himself.
He grinned his lopsided grin. Not to anyone in particular, no.

He started talking. After the initial pause, he stammered.
He answered him. Word to word. Question to question. He stammered, because he did.

He asked him nothing.
He answered nothing. He just stared.

He looked at him with a look of want in his eyes.
He looked back at him, his eyebrows perched together.

He took a step back. His left moving first.
He took a step forward. His right, then his left.

He bowed down.
He looked towards the Earth and stooped a little.

They were in it together; him and the mirror.

Reflections.

Life and the Devil

There he is. Straight faced and stout. His face provides you no clue. There is no way you can see what lay behind him.
Today, he is evil.

You stare at his picture and you hate him.
You look at the pair of set deep blue eyes and you see a stone black shadow. His mouth, thin and lined; gives no semblance of grief. There is no white beneath the blackened lips.

The face stamped on paper seemed old and lined. The face radiated some power, some angst, but you saw nothing.
You made your own assumptions. You were busy making them.
You love them.

You hate him.
There is no reason. You just do. You know nothing of him. Just that one picture. And just that one day off of his life.
There is no reason.

He is just a picture in the newspaper.
He is just another murderer.

And you, you make your assumptions. You hate him.