The Thin Grey Line

I am a man nay, a boy decaying,
I worshiped my kin as all faithless boys do,
Following their pure light until the fade.
I thought of the black, the white of life,
Not me, I now live in the inbetween,
The thin grey line between the ying and yang,
I am reborn a twisted creature of these murky depths.

Slush

I see you clearly now,

I see us for who we are,

You are the blank figure,

Wrapped in your inner dialogue,

Arguing contradictions to each side of your coin,

Each an opposite to each other,

a cycle that never ends.

A vapour of formality and cynicism,

Blackens the air around you,

Obscuring you even in this age of digital clarity.

I see strands of your past,

A meandering breadcrumb trail of lost connections

That curses your psyche, scarring you,

Leaving only the merest suggestion of the helical lottery

that makes up the unique snowdrop of your being.

100 Metres

I stand,

A great statue of smooth marble, breathe in.

Glassy eyes peering from the sky. Breathe out.

I prepare,

Convince myself I am a winner, breathe in.

I am a winner, breathe out.

I tense,

Every fibre of my being melds into bone, breathe in,

My entire body fluid, breathe out,

Working in unison for one purpose, breathe in,

One goal, one race, one medal, breathe out.

A distant cry pierces my skull and,

I release,

My legs aflame, I propel forward,

Slicing through the air,

Sweat dripping, forming clouds of perspiration behind me,

And with one final step it is over,

My muscles snap rigid, groaning.

I drop,

Bitter-sweet tears stream down my face,

Everything I worked for,

Fought in the blink of an eye,

A flutter of a flag,

A flash of a camera.

Now I rest,

Only until the next goal, the next race, the next medal,

The next step.

Enlightenment

I lay down willing sleep until the fresh dawn,

My mind drifts into the perpetual cliche of night-time musings,

But the darkness, which harks back to Plato's cave,

Just stares, 

Unmoving, 

Relentless,

Staring back I see only a pinprick of light in the distance.

The light casts long shadows that envelop

Me in a blanket of torturous tricks,

And as I begin to question the lights very existence,

Wondering how a light could shine in this night

Of labyrinthe mazes of fools and madmen,

I find myself asking,

As a calm befitting a crystalline river overtakes me,

How can there be great shadows without glorious light?

By Roger Jenkins