Life ???

Is not but a series of fractured illusions, shadows emanating from time immemorial.
Slithering in and out of times passage between sun’s rise and sun slipping beneath the horizon.

Shadows no longer represent anything , for they have permeated, instigated, become an intricate,
Inseparable part of the darkness, a black hole, which became an elaborate part of the subconscious desire.

Splinters of one’s being, fragments of one’s essence pressed between the pages of one’s history.
A history reflected upon shards from broken mirrors that once was reality, now filling empty spaces.

Spaces that once, as a hole, refracted the moments that resembled images of a reality, are now put pieces.
Pieces of a puzzle that made up the heart, soul and essence of mankind that we thought we did know.

B. J. “A ” 2

November 27^th, 2020

 

Life behind these eyes

This old body, harboured among so many artifacts.
My Spirit wanders the spaces within my four cornered rooms.

My Soul searches for meaning beyond the bars of my steel cage.  .
My heart beats against the walls of my memories hoard.

Blood pumping, awakening the essence of what is stored.
My nights becoming the life what should be my days.

Slipping my mind into neutral, sound and electromagnetic waves carry.
Living vicariously through the eyes, imaginations, the talents of others.

Writers producers, directors, camera create and bring to the screen.
That one eyed monster, the cathode tube that carries one beyond.

Awareness of space time continuum, its linear journey lost to me.
Consciousness of times passing no longer has any relevance. 

Seconds into minutes, hours, days, weeks months, years, a lifetime
One elongated stream, without destination, meaning or substance.

Carried off into the sun set, carried on the wings of solar winds.
Particles of time, connected, never seen by these tired old eyes.

Reaching, with both hands into the ether, the four corners of this universe.
Habits, rituals, routines dominate, no longer cognizant of times movements.

 Days have become night, many hours spent in a bed of water.
Lost in dream land, where the subconscious brings to life ones history.

 Stories told, be they positive, negative, indifferent or be they illusions.
A surrealistic representations of unfinished business, of desired unfulfilled.

On occasion, a vision, a premonition, something beyond a reflection.
For the most part, a desire to, once again, to experience the essence of.

Passions, desires, a life no longer afforded a disabled, indigent senior.
Only in the images played out upon the back of ones eye lids.

Painted upon canvases, woven into tapestries, displayed on TV screens.
Phantasmagorias that elucidate a life, some regrets, a life consumed.

B. J. “A ” 2

January 24^ht, 2021