Cycles of Something

See how we fracture time
With our little worries?
Hammer and pick.
We struggle upstream.
We chase the old scent
With coalescent uncertainty.
It is a strenuous loathing,
A dark choking madness.
It comes on in a sneaking ambush of despair.
What creeping flame ignites
The soul to deviate from right?
The spark of Hell
Leaves, breathless and troubled,
A belt-bound heart.
You ring me and I come up short.
I can’t find in me the change
To buy some time;
Cheaper than truth
And decidedly prettier,
But out of my range, nonetheless.
You can’t see that?
The loathsome shudder -
Hell seeping through the cracks
in the floorboards.
I gather my stuffy ears
And, hunkering onward,
Forget I was there
In the Old Country,
Senses invigorated
By laughter and breath.
Breath.
I almost remember
Breathing in and out,
A leisurely indulgence.
I complain through my teeth
That my precious sorrow left me;
And somehow I am rushing
Back again to the darkness
Where I breathe easy
The fresh air of sadness.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007