Muse |
Muse |
The virus is a vicious red Bleeding into the head Harrowing words With COVID curves, Flickering on a social media thread Sewing together an altogether Monstrous end That's loose and unpredictable: You never know to where it might unravel. Who cares: Who lives or dies, Whose eyes may rise With the sun, Whose body's done, Whose journey's lost and won. Mounting figures fall on death ears As they ascend the y axis of R. Any figure is to blame, Who has a name, And wears the trousers of office, Pinned by the press As another "misspoken" term, A rule malleable and as changing As the mood swings Under the push of a parent Where school children still play, Bubbled beyond belief: Was anything ever different? And what of those silent souls, The ones that don't get to grow old, Their bodies torn Within Within the folds of their skin? As their blood runs cold, A vicious red Bites the dust, The fading hue Of a COVID long gone, But that left a suicide note For the body left behind, Stolen in the night, With no more breath to find. The lungs crackle and fracture; A guttural expression of laughter Leaving a friendly face That never got to place A hand on a loved one's arm Before the room grew dark. A friend, a foe, someone you don't know. It's all the same. The vicious red doesn't choose, It doesn't feel, But it is real. Yet the blind ear and the deaf eye Cry about life And having to abstain For one more day, Whilst breathing gluttonously on. The privileged are not patient. The vicious red spreads, Making no distinction. Who is next? You'd better keep your head. Photo by Joel Filipe on Unsplash Originally written October 2020, age 24
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I like it when it's sunny, It makes me feel alive; I like it when the trees are green, It means I can survive. But no, the trees are falling down, Too soon has autumn come around, The leaves are dying on the ground, Screaming out; there is no sound. No flutter of the heart as one skips through the dappled shade, Wrapt in the wonder of such beatific rays, Through the embracing green That we all should have seen, On those boughs; my, aren't they strong! Not able to sit among an elder and ponder, Nor to watch the clouds float by on a summer's breeze, When all the while you fly still in the trees. Of all the meaning in these gifts, We instead plump for mere pips, We strip the trunks bare and limit out air, Signing the death warrant before it's been ironed. Originally written in 2015, age 19
Opal eyes see through and yet perceive nothing. Like anti-glare on glasses, The words read bounce off, Deflected, and thoughts dejected. Shooting through the pupil and seeping out the corners, Dropping, Lifeless, Onto the keyboard. The motor is about to stall, Yet everything has gone automatic. Routine? What about auto-pilot. Glazed but not the sugar kind, But of another world: Spaced Out. Shut in. Clocked out. Locked down. Freedom is a distant friend: Trips to the coast, Walking to work, Taking the train. Smiles stretch the skin At the horse’s mouth, Now long and drawn, And about to inflate with wonting, Wishes of chewing the fat, Dreaming of a picnic on the grass. What does your family look like? Pixel block heads bobbing, Zooming, Skipping, Flicking like a camera lens In and out of focus. A far cry from Minecraft, Wishing I could dig my way out, Scratching at the walls inside my brain, Incessantly blinking for what I see to make sense. Groundhog Day has come. Round and round we go. There’s no stepping off the merry-go-round; Unless you want to stop breathing. All aboard the mind game Carousel, Spinning inside the walls of thought, Like a pin ball stuck circling the drain. With an hour of whispered air To remind you that life was once easy, The penny drops. The sun dawns every day And shines on our salty cheeks, Calling us to rise. A challenge. A call of nature. We hear a distant plea from the new growth of Spring And an Earth that inhales for the first time in decades. Some insist on sucking up the sun, Basking in baked sand, Rubbing shoulders with each other, And sharing the siren. Sacrifice is the privilege of few It seems. Lockdown fatigue takes its toll; A knell for those who are old. Reform the researcher. Run. Round and round the park. Feel the breeze, hear the leaves, and smell the sweat Trickling down your own heart, Beating on. Beating strong. Running the distance is like climbing out of a hole. Rallying those out of reach, Stretching my tongue, Meeting eyes not seen in a while. While my free friend has to stay at home, I look into the pensieve and Drop back into the lives of other eyes, Whose existence as colours on my computer canvas Is a lifeline. A rope not to hang from, But to ascend, Back onto the land line; Finding a ship docked, Ready to sail from the locked And toward the clocked in, Breaking out. Originally written June 2020, age 24
It is something we are born in, we are seen in,
Something we believe in to fit in, But it's not culture that's our song, It's the love we feel all along, To belong, to bond, With those who make us feel secure, More mature, if we agree with what they say, What they pray for and what they lay down their lives for. How they see the world and feel the world, How their story-telling unfurls; The books that tell us how to live, When others hear it like a sieve; As it goes through, they can't accept that, Can't see how anyone can accept that, What they're told is the truth, But isn't that how we always learn, me and you? Why don't we choose to be open, To remain unspoken, just as a token; As our appreciation to others' beliefs? Understanding evolves and so must our values move on, But those who want to stay? Don't get up and get in their way, Let them remain in the comfort. Something we all strive for And try for; something we would die for, Or, rather, stay alive for. Culture is what you choose to be, How you choose to see, to believe, How you choose to live. Be brave ad embrace The new or be just as brave and cradle that which Has been told to you, given as truth, And do now what you've heard said, that: When you're older, you'll respect culture.
Originally written in 2015, age 19; edited 2020, age 24
Ideas scurry on by as I try to recapture a strain Of thought quite gone from its spring That it was as if it grew wings and Took flight to fight my addled brain For more thinking and, blinking, I try to recall that juicy pool of philosophy That I had dipped my neural toes into and Followed a notion that puffed out, scratching Its way from my brain, running down my fingers And onto the page, where it remained scribbled Until with a fresh mind and dewy eyes Strangers read again as it lingers, Gnawing at their senses as fur stands, Brushed over, and squeaking it plucks On a cheesy note of a heartstring, Where a zesty end lands, Wrapped in tales and pricked ears That creep quietly by and rest, Waiting for another time to rise, Or to be stroked dead in the pocket of peers. © Copyright 2020
The rain drops, streaming across the window Like stars shots, running across the night's sky; They sparkle on their sides and Dance against the black backdrop, A deep navy canvas that reflects Travelling faces. Through the window, amber lights shine And passing fairies glitter their way As the festive hearts of travellers Flitter at the thought of coming home For that family Christmas, Or altogether fast to a lonely room. A perpetual exhale of exertion Accompanies quiet conversation and Dulls the station call To the blue-lit eyes that consume; Those stimulated moons that Cut down the social to the subdued. Dinner tables fold out for work Or as an extra hand for a can of Carling, Keeping it cool for the night out on the town Or to hold forever for a friend. Crumbs from a late supper decorate the seats, Encrusting its fibres with a crunch. Closed in shut on a cold day, The air conditions exude human odour; The doors revolve as travellers go their natural course, With a burst of rich diets following, Wafting its way through the passengers; Some wrinkling, others staying plain. Stacking the shelves with memories, Overhead and hoarded, No space for bicycles that offer a greener step. The oiled engine rumbles far from electric energy With the hybrid only a puffed idea On this excursion. Tired heads bob along to the rhythm of the Track clacking its tacky tune; A tinny beat that sways its way home. Numb minds and silence Are more than the merrier here; Rain away and wash out the gloom. Copyright © 2019
There's a fire in my heart, And it has ripped us both apart. There's a fire in my soul, And it's burned a dark, ugly hole Right to where the eye used to be That could always perceive your beauty; The way your smile lit up the room, But it melted and now that's gone too. The smell of your hair, The love in the air, The way you held me every night Even after you turned out the light. Remember before I set this fire ablaze, Caught your mirage in the haze; Stared at you until my eyes went coal Stoned and drunk on all that is cold But nothing worked. Instead everything hurt. You were the one who knew me to my core, How to heal all my sores. Save one. The fire that burned so bright that I Couldn't control it. Couldn't hold it. Couldn't quench it. I never meant it. What I said. What I did. How I went. How I hid. There was a fire in my heart, And it ripped us both apart From this life to the next. There was a fire in my soul And it burned a dark, ugly hole Right where the eye used to be, Reflecting the eye that I could see Pointed at my chest And with every heaving breath I screamed. But this time it took me and I went. Because my life was all spent On reaching a recovery that I couldn't achieve Or one that I couldn't see. I should have told you Maybe I can still hold you Still as you shake in the night After you turn out the light. Again. You'll pretend you knew And that there was something too That you noticed About how I never spoke of this. And as you stand in the black Realising I'm never coming back You'll bow your head And whisper instead: "If he could have talked to me We would be looking at an end To a happier story." Copyright © 2019
Question-mark-arched, Over the world's knowledge, folly, and self-destruction. Where we can lose ourselves and find Truth in our online image; A mirage of an offline being. Seeing for the first time the wealth of Information, innovation, and creation; Becoming more than we ever wanted to be. Dreaming of a new life in space Whilst driving to work with our children, Strapped in for school. Our minds distracted and diffracted In a web of many plaforms. Connected yet disconnected with external lies, Why drive? Why not sit at home, On the phone, and text and surf your way to Business. The richness of sharing, caring, but Scaring and daring to offend, praises and insults blend into one; Those that discard acceptability and appropriateness from their inbox, Protected behind glass and miles of lightning-fast broadband. To use or not to use; to abuse or not to use. One cannot be done without the other. Flawed by those users who abuse us Across the space we love, like, and comment on. Humanity and humility reflected like a mirror, And amplified through speakers across the years; Archives that gather no dust But get lost like us in the labyrinth of the web. The Internet Enigma. © Copyright Samantha Ford 2018
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AuthorSamantha is a doctoral researcher researching the power of figurative language in advertising, social media, and mobile technology. Copyright © 2022
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