Sunday, 31 July 2016

mystic night

         they board the bus
the old men from trinidad
wearing top hats and smiles
smiles that break out into chuckles
chuckles that subside
                                         into a glorified

silence

                    ////life is for the living

a young woman
sits quietly, with earphones in her ears
behind a young man, 
into cosmic space he stares
delving deeper and deeper into the thoroughfares
of a reality (untold)

she disembarks
her face half hidden,
behind swathes of wild hair
dressed in an attire she may never wear
in the cold light of morning

                                                   <someplace in between>

onwards
the bus zips through
the city roads
bypassing the 3am congregation
of drunkards and dreamers
wanderers and dealers

nowhere folk
squatting on nowhere curbs
eating spiced kebabs
exchanging no words

no words
to speak 
                                   fatigue 
sets in
(the undying kind)

some are running, still running
still stumbling and falling
                                                     still coming
to terms with          a slow death
for each and every breathe
                                        is excruciating

////death is for the dying

the bus zips across the bridge 
over the river

it alights
       
                  the mystic
disembarks
for he delights 
in not only seeing
but delivering
------- kindness (in no small measure)
to those most in need

so he treads a path, guided by burning lights
 through tunnels, where the smell of urine divides
men sleeping rough
from those who have enough
----------------to not endure the worst of it

and he leaves each sleeping soul a gift
an immaterial gift, to lift

that fragile human spirit
(the eternal moment, when you lived in the light)
the light the light the light