Writing

The world rotates at the same rate 

no changes perceptible to minuscule beings. 

No reprieve in sight, 

no break from the silence.

The final curtain a certainty. 

My companion ever present.

Loud in its absence.

Fill the void with musings and stories,

moments past and imagined. 

Love.

Beauty

Everlasting breath.

Construct security and boost the fragile scaffold.

Straw, matchsticks, wood, bricks and steel in the future. 

Surrounded by life, 

striving to allow life to continue every day,

holding on to the grips of strength,

challenging the certainty and ceasing the moments of terminal certainty for those I care for.

And yet I know that inevitability leads in the same direction.

The bookends are certain,

the books are a variable. 

Write in them daily.

Draw in them,

record hymns, 

feel the beats and warmth of the sun.

The softness of skin,

the tingling of adventure,

the pain of muscles in action,

the softness of animal fur.

The cogs turning

to give meaning and pleasure.

To cement the walls you build.

Yes, they will crumble.

But pass a worthwhile baton.

That will endure.

Write a book that will proudly keep .

On a dusty shelf.

Yes, forgotten. 

But well read, well leafed, well handled, well loved. 

Every day resurface from the earth

and face another empty page.

They sometimes feel pre-used.

Sometimes I am certain I have written in them before.

Or others before me.

I resent having to write the same page again and again.

Like a naughty child in school.

I must not waste my time,

I must not chat incessantly,

I must not cry,

I must not be me,

I must not try so hard to turn the pages in a hurry.

I keep wishing to turn the page and find the paragraph that was written for me,

frustrated by the thought and knowledge there is no such thing.

Clutch at straws laid out by others would be convenient.

Read that book that is meant as a guide. 

That nebulous trap that binds millions.

Yet I have long rejected that code,

dressed as it is in robes of hypocrisy.

Abandoned as I was 

when the dark was darkest and the pages were most empty.

Reading is easier than writing.

But boredom is not my strongest ally.

I strive to create and recreate,

reinvent and innovate.

Could it be that someone will one day 

turn the pages at the same time as me.

That the timing and the writing could one day be synchronised,

in tune,

calligraphic in every sense,

copied from the same mysterious cloud.

The hope will always be alive

always copied down and reiterated.

That wish to be seen never ending.

Or will I be like Miss Austen?

Ever clinging to the page 

Mr Darcy everlasting.

Ever admired for ideas,

never embraced for softness and held close.

Never precious to one,

but valued by many.

Never sure of my worth,

always seeking to assign it.