young man in the stream
was then there now wild conflict
did the best he could

does the best he can

You say I've changed
Into something I can't recognise
Yet still I wage
War on your cold scathing eyes

So tell me who
The predator or the prey?
You look into the mirror
And see everyday

True colours are but shades
Wearing them like an effigy
Plastic, like make believe tales
Is this who I'm meant to be?

A fox sits in the forest at the foot of my house.
Each morning
she intertwines with the sunrise, materialising through graceful leaps
It leaves me breathless;
all I can do is bathe in awe.

One morning I extend my hand
and she engulfs me, gracefully
I become whole again. We dash through trees
and fields and meadows

She dances, and leads me gently to the tips of the earth
Her breath resounds against hillsides, and as I fall
I catch almost a glimmer of
light-dipped roses, and golden daffodils.

My birds,
a winsome kaleidoscope of colour and sound
I stand within myself in my clearing, a tiny, circular garden
filled simply with encroaching trees and
a circle of pale concrete underfoot

Marred only
with snaring daisies, quiet
allure, and I take the time to romance the colours I behold so dearly
as they swim through my blurred, jarring vision and as I
melt wholly into the river beside me.

My garden is the only good left in this world
especially now that I have left it.

I could not sleep last night
I was woken up by their yelling
I tried to ignore it as tears streamed gently
Down my closed eyelids
Then pounding on my door
I timidly step out of bed
Smoke rolling he screams that he cannot do it anymore

I am paralyzed
What am I supposed to say
I curl up in a ball
Retreat
retreat
retreat
re --