Out on the Freeway
In the shadow of the city grey ghosts rise,
time their shroud and hate their eyes,
waiting to wake in the minds of the living,
unseen, unsought and unforgiving.
But you and I are out on the freeway,
living our own lives in our own way;
the past holds no secrets or spectres for us,
the wheels beneath us a rotating chorus
that down through the miles chants us together
as though chance could hold us here, forever.
Yellow light through thin curtains –
dawn in a lonely cottage.
I can smell the wood of the floor, the rafters,
my senses sharper in the morning air.
A blissful moment,
not knowing who, or what, or where I am,
an instant of untrammelled thought, crystal clear…
Then memory returns –
a night of horrors, fear and darkness,
knowing that that which I fear is myself
yet unable to change to my nature.
How long? and for how much longer?
To endure this living hell, this pain, this torture:
I long to end it but cannot.
Reviling my revelry, my joy,
my soul feeds on dark desires and lusts.
I pray each night for the surcease of morning,
but pray each day for the release of night.
an exercise in silence,
enforced solitude, able to count
the conversations of day on a single hand,
the awareness of traffic noise, birdsong,
the sounds ignored as commonplace.
Outside the comfort of a common langauge,
reduced to primitive signs and sounds,
the loneliness leads to desolation,
and a wearing down of soul and spirit.
Surprising, how soon the gift
of communication slips;
will I be able to use my language again?
The words come harder,
and I write no more.