Dull Flame

‘Through the down cast lashes

I see the dull flame of desire’

-Bjork

I stand at the crossroads on the landing.

The evening sun rays penetrate the gerbera petals

Once again

Harshly halo-ing the pastel co-ordinates.

The spider plant has been relegated to its suicidal perch

Above the toilet

In front of the venturi e(a)ffected window

That channels from the southern seas.

The towels hang roughly over the other toilet

Encasing it into a cubicle of wet colours

Each fighting for their space of dehumidified air

To humidify.

It was the cubicle, the humidity;

The sanctum I chose to dwell in

After a day of exposing my self

To the sunshine. To the grass.

To the people whom I surround myself with.

But now I felt lost. Heavy. Dejected.

---------------------------

I stay perpetually occupied.

I am not my best friend.

Not now.

I thought, in my wet cubicle, about the loss

That is about to hit

Of the lost friends this summer.

The ones who have died in the last few weeks

Been delegated to enter the road of perdition

Where pain is the least of their burdens.

The setting sun

Over those mountains,

 Over there.

But not the mountain rivers within

That surge upwards at the slightest loss

And drown any reason,

Or pragmatism.

Deluging my spirit into avarice.

And yet it is apathy I hate.

It is the dull flame of desire for life,

I have.

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