No “Outtakes” to tag onto the bottom of this piece. It was pretty much done as it is in the one sitting of an evening this summer just passed. Full of the trademark uplifting jollity, it’s a rumination on some of lifes elements, rather than a description of them at the time of writing. Beyond that I’ve nothing I really want to add, except that, hopefully, I’ve been able to mask it’s meaning or subject matter well enough to make it something thoughtful rather than obvious.
96. The lift has stopped. (19 July 2015).
Thwarted souls and icicles,
And roasted selves,
Toasted in the public gaze,
Where it’s more than just the metaphors,
That are conflicting with themselves,
And attempting the destroying,
Of what they want to keep,
All in the name of self-preserving,
Trying to stop the shrivelling inner self,
From burning,
Through to the outside cheek,
Exposing to the outside world,
Vulnerability naked bare,
Just nothing but,
Just nothing there,
No substance in the glare,
Only raw nerve endings and fresh air,
Echoing in a hollow vacuum full exposed,
With nothing left,
And nowhere to grow,
Another mask,
There’s nothing left to keep,
To shield and to protect,
From the staring inside outside world,
And the scalpel cuts,
Of its mining,
For the time that’s little left,
Within a carcass that,
Has naught within, that is bereft,
No more is there to give,
These lungs the motive,
To continue once more after falling,
To fill themselves again, and lift.
(c) Jim Laing 2015.
