Last night I opened the door to a fear I do not know,
a stranger from the street.
Its overwhelming silhouette now casting over my feet.

It greeted me like a neighbour,
tightly gripping at my hand,
a warmth not becoming of the spectre I did not understand.

For my life I've carried this scar.
A symbol of my mother's mercy,
A blessing of a life for which others have been thirsty.

I quietly parade it in defiance,
that slender crescent moon,
rising from my skin so as not to be forgotten.

Now I stand at the doorway of my conscience
and warily make acquaintance,
with the helpless fear that long feasted on my mother's patience.

Quick sweep of the steeple's steep
staircase winding
forever reminding
of a chasm in the maze and the mess;
A House of Mirrors.
A ***** trail, left to confess.

Three hail marys and a change of tack;
A quick sin shower
gets the devil off the back.
Perpetually pious of the priest
to keep the gun beneath the sheets.
Christ is hanging on the walls
a quick look up
the burden falls.

Shattered into tiny pieces
peace re-pieced upon the altar,
by Holy ghost and ****** Mary
Be this not the day he falter.

John Keats
John Keats
John
Please put your scarf on.

Skyscrapers scarfed in dawn's mist,
their torsos shrouded by nature's wisps
a reminder that man made this,
that wind and the water could show it
its end.

Metropolis unharmed,
lit windows like the glints of a thousand eyes.
Unknowing and blissful.
The fog unfolds like an opened hand,
palms upwards, swaying in the boulevard.

Happ'ly I stand, upon the mountain's edge
and admire the regal coexistence
of man and its maker.

Steam escapes the surface
Of infant mince pies.
Spiralling upwards, it dances
Into the winter haze
Where headlights, opaquely visible,
Shine beams stopped short in the fog.

The mist flurries atop the frozen pond,
Over brittle leaves, half caught.
The deer nuzzles in frosty thickets,
Searching the winter veil
For stray nut.

Mittened song sheets conduct
a huddle of duffle coats
and frosted boots, rooted in the snow.
Sweet carols leave notes hanging
in tranquil harmony.

‘neath the tap my hands endure
The bitter cold of winter’s water;
But happily I return to my window,
And cast a gaze once more on winter Britain.
The fire leaves a smoky essence,
A homely smell.
December come.

Failure is a haunting fear
but fear itself is worse.
A deceitful ghost
like the closed door

keyless

now a wall.