the past was a ceaseless
white on white
A clean page
pen poised above
fingers trembling with tension
to write a history
but the ink
unable
to spill to paper
She receded into the shadow worlds
wervyn and were- creatures abound
the moving shapes
leaving burning images
on her filigreed curtains
She
closed doors
wove protective shells
layered crystal and calcium
building carefully around her
till she could not see without
and none could come within.
And he
had no recourse
to make contact
His curse
was to be incorporate
a ghost in the machinery
seen vaguely as a backdrop
for the completion of destinies
He made up the numbers
during daylight hours
but secretly at night
when the lights were extinguished
he would press glowing spectral fingers
to the smooth surface of the road outside his house
The tar
melting beneath touch
allowing phrases and thoughts
to sear into the coarse much travelled pathways
He would leave whole stories
of men without mouths
who could not speak desperation
Of men without faces
who could not frown
encased within a seashell
He wrote tales
of prophecies foretold
of a seeking for wholeness
from the one person who could offer it
who was forever
saying no
And by morning
the winding script
swirled and wavered across
the blackened thread
Telling his story to no one
but the tyres
as they ran upon him
and smeared him dark again
