I looked up at the moon this night
For to bathe in the tranquil light
To see technique, hypnotism,
Darkness and recidivism.
There’s beauty to be seen, though
Past the trying and past the show
We have to put on every day
Every single day, every way.
There’s a drumming, this sound
Is loud, it’s all around;
Deafening, thumping, close:
A bassline so morose.
This drumming it throbs and pounds
Merciless the beating sounds
Oh how it aches, the aching,
Broken incessant breaking.
Where’s the beauty to be seen
In this facade all serene?
I’m past trying, I’m past show
Past the point I need to go.
I looked into the mirror that night
A reflection of self born from light
With no sight, no sound of what’s within
Nothing left if I’m stretched too thin.
What sight when eyes light on my visage
Is by my might lost by calm mirage
But you see smiles and are unsure
Because the drums ne’er pass your door.
Nonexistent words are tough to speak
When answers to questions that you seek
Will not come forth for you not ever
Stuck you are to futile endeavour.
If you listen then perhaps you’ll know
The sound I spoke of long ago:
This drumming, hammering I hear
Is inside me; a darkening fear.
“Of what?” you ask as if I can answer
As a dance comes to ballet dancer
“Everything” is all that I can speak
But know saying so is being meek.
The moon as a silver drum forlorn
Beating light onto this my form
As I lay in grass and face the sky
And for no reason begin to cry.
Is that beauty you see, or a pretence
You tell me because we’re friends
Hiding behind your words unsure
Because the drums are at your door?
Do you see the truth of what’s inside
A weight we bear but care to hide,
A frightened child inside our bones
So lost and scared to be alone?
© Kris Blackburn 23/08/2015