I am

A poem in free verse, with a reading from the author

I am the dreamless night
without slumber
without silence 

shadows lumber
a deafening hum
fill the walls
till it becomes 
numbing
I, to it all
but never numb
enough to find stillness

a lively mind
a blessing
and an illness 

tuned into the world beyond
beyond the window pane -

creatures of the night 
buzz and swarm
toward the bright lights
and warm
embraces

bushy tailed foxes
dip in and out of sight
whilst the tods snarl and fight
vixens squeal to lure a mate

we animals 
with beating heart
what sets us apart?
us sapiens 
us sentients 

we have a world
beyond the vein 
which pumps  
and circulates 

beyond the world
of atoms

ideas percolate
free of verse
and unpredictable 
spreading
knowledge circulates 
imbedding in pockets
of peoples
creating culture 

in the world of essence 
before disappearing out of use 
to a world of evanescence 

nose pressed against
the window pane
shatters
letting in the wonderland
Alice
and all the Mad Hatters 

a circus of characters 
trampling 
winding in the belly
this winded pain
that leaves one breathless
restless

I am the restless mind
that’s wanting 

ever wanting 
wishing 
in a sea of worry
fishing
for some unseen promise

rocking the boat
in calm waters 
anxieties keep me falling
flailing  
drowning 

washing up on the shore of reason
soaked to the bone
I take myself home
muddled amongst beached words
thrown overboard 
like an imperfect rhyme

it lingers 
the worry
dropping in unannounced 

the wanting
wishing it could be hung up at the door
like a soggy coat
instead of dragged through the house
dripping 
sodden
trodden 
into every square inch
of solid, saddening ground 
tarnishing 

I am the tarnished tale
imperfect 
scrawled
loosely 
barely legible 
unrhymed

written in many different colours of ink
often blue
often dark
that bleeds out
when pressure is applied
to leave it’s mark
flawed
scruff
beyond the straight edge of the line 
the impressions remain rough
and real

handwritten 

scribbled in the margin
between black printer pressed type
otherly 

the books a bestseller 
“don’t believe the hype”
writes the child in war torn Afghanistan 

It’s an often confounding composition
life
for many
barely fitting in
in the confines of the page
the cage - the boundary - the box
which we find ourselves in
from birth 

a story with a plot
a protagonist 
you

drafting out 
a manuscript -
conventions which skew 
our personalities
likes, wants and needs
to fit 
into the systems 
that be -
the creeds, factions, institutions  
that we
accept, embody or in their grip
succumb 
proliferating 
and often
become

I am the narrative 
changing 
unfinished

no one child passes undiminished 
of their truest self
configured continually
by their cultures

still, here we are
with all its wealth 
beneath the circling vultures

who pick the bones
of the earth

but they do not have hands 
to brandish the knife
which carves the oak
of my resolve

or hold the weight of the hammer
which judges ones heart 
and can absolve 

dexterity to move the pencil
toward where the flowers 
of creativity bloom

in the darkness of 
a dreamless night
tracing the shadows 
of the room

filling space
with our annotations 

… until the end 

bending the will of our poetic voice
till the poems penned

I am the pen which writes
I am the fingers which type
I am the restless mind
I am the dreamless night. 

© Darius the Mate

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