At sundown

The calm pounding of the heart
Marching drum
Anger prickling the skin
Like ants
Reminder of the machinery within
The harpoons in the flesh
How befitting the feelings are
To our senses.
The rough textures always
Grate, scrape the eye -
To say the least.
The smell gripped everywhere
The hand stayed at the first touch
Wishing for silence more often than not
For the soothing blanket of music.
Perhaps the taste is the least developed of the senses.
Yet bitterness must still be felt.
_____________

Time wasted in colourless activities.
Observing, witnessing.
Shadows drifting past shafts of light.
Heedless. Terrified to see.
Yet they forgot they were scared.
It is buried deep, deep down.
Luckily for them it will never surface.
They carry on loving, hating, working.
They never open the blinkers
Lest the darkness closes in upon them.
For the darkness lurks.
Its eyes spangles in the night.
_____________

Longing for warmth
A hand
One look
One meaningful look
A familiar smell
An eyelash lost on a cheek
A familiar step
The evidence of the self
An embrace which neither
Pity nor comfort commanded
The possibility of conversation
- However transient -
The luxury of happiness.
______________

Bonding never seemed so hard
The loud crowds
Sniggering
Navel-gazing
Strong, multitudinous
Juggernaut
ready - and perhaps eager -
To murder
Rows and lines are clearly defined.
Pawns cannot look backwards.