Lonely. Abandoned. Irrelevant.
Slashes of broken window on the floor
in a deserted house
trying to pick up the pieces
and see clearly again
what happened when it wasn’t looking.
I watch people keep to themselves
like old housewells
nobody’s drunk from in years.
But sometimes you can see the iron
run like blood in their tears
when they look in the mirror at themselves
like watercolours in the rain
and stains on the bathtub.
The young say
who wants to be them
and the old say nothing
knowing we’re all going to die sooner or later
and the lies we used in our youth
like weapons against others
now turn like the moon’s two-faced dagger
I could look at it as a hard lesson
in empathy and compassion I suppose
and learn to make a game out of it all
like a child trying to contrive a game
out of its own bones
just to pass the time
until even death dies in me
along with everything else.
I used to think of compassion as water
but now I’m more inclined to see it as fire.
And I’ve given up those grail quests
and solitary holy wars with my own shadow
all the ferocious sincerity of my seeking
as just so many journeys
that turned their back
on their own enlightenment
the moment they left home.
Returning objects to mind
the house is full of the moon
when no one’s home
and nothing’s missing.
I leave everything behind
and steal away like a thief from my window
as silent and old as the moon.