Spotlight.

There's a wind up spotlight
shining over a midnight battleground.
Snow, several inches thick,
renders defining the terrain
entirely impossible.

The Operator works harder,
the snow becomes brighter,
but the mechanism creaks
and breaks under the strain.
The light tilts downwards
and grants the Dark its reign.

Thorn.

Round the back of a house older than ourselves,
there rests an unkempt garden.

The grass shoots upwards from the earth,
tall enough to hide away the ground
and let forgotten creatures travel undetected.
The hum of the wings of bees and wasps
synchronise, drowning out all other sound,
whilst the multitude of bird songs go unrespected.

The forever growing canopy of leaves
threatens to hide the Sun and all its light
from everything dwelling below.
The arctic wind throws the branches about,
making them them snap, whip, and bite
at the whim of a bloody beaked crow.

Vines grapple with the house itself,
getting in between mortar and brick
as they slowly tear the place down.
Trampled flowers lie besides those
who stand with stems sturdy and thick,
but with petals beaten and brown.

I don't care for grass, or trees, or the everyday flower.
The sins of each don't seem worthy of my scorn.
There's only one thing in this garden I'd like to address -
the Roses weighed down by their Thorn.

Surrender.

Both noble Rooks fell -
their fates decided by the Bishops.
The Pawns, forever driving on,
drew blood until their kind was gone.
The Knights found their graves
provided a much more stable home,
slain by the Queen who then
wore our own down to the bone.
Barricaded inside the church,
the Bishops threw incense and oil over
their once triumphant King.
His forces divided and destroyed,
he was forced to choose the last song
that only such men can sing.

Departure.

The train should have left already.

There's a woman across the aisle
breathing deeply between expletives -
a panic attack which she seeks to defeat
with a veritable verbal assault.
She files a broken nail as if she
holds her hands responsible for the delay.
"I cannot fucking believe it!
This train should have left already."

There's another man scrawling thoughts
into a notebook that only he can see.
After each phrase he raises his hand
and scratches between his nose and upper-lip.
This, combined with covert coffee sips,
satisfies his thirst for inspiration.
A quick peek over his shoulder
and his thoughts are all laid bare.
"What an assault upon the decent!
This train should have left already!"

A suited man, complete with greying stubble
and thick-framed glasses, seems entirely more composed.
The leisurely descent of each newspaper page
suggests an air of calm acceptance:
an embrace of his South Eastern fate.
The only tell I can spot,
is the rapid tapping
upon the face of his watch.
I'm not sure if he sees It as the
Sovereign of Time, or if he's tapping
out some code to Morse -
"Save. Our. Souls.
This train should have left already."

And through the window stands a woman
whose high-vis jacket draws all kind of questions.
She points to different platforms,
and confirms for one startled commuter -
"Yes, this is the right train.
Yes, I know, it should have left already."

Kings.

There stands only an easel;
a canvas; and a vase'd bouquet.
The sun had set some time ago,
but The Artist painted day.

He'd transcribed splintered wood
into a lavish carpet - "Fit For Kings".
The simple, cobwebbed windows gone -
covered by "The Finer Things".
Flowing curtains shielded rot;
and mahogany dotted the wings.
The tired floral yellows, and quiet blues,
were replaced by entwined rosen rings.
(There sits a fattened fly upon a petal,
but He ignored the flower to which it clings).
To the loaded paint brush - the power,
and to the Artist - The Kings.

Ascension.

I'll wade through the morning like
the ankle-high mire that it is.
I'll crawl beyond the craters
of the barb'd afternoon,
into the rolling hills of eventide...
where the whipping Sun dies too soon.
I won't glide upon the morning's gaze
nor relish in its attention.
I'll ignore the sweet lull of noon
and fall to those rolling hills,
where I might delight in convention.
The thick web of night will fall,
and amongst it's netting catch
a man who stood tall,
but forever defied ascension.

Burrow.

There's a small spot in the forest
where the thicket reigns as King.
A canopy of dying leaves ensures
no chance of sunshine seeping in.
Where the worms and beetles
burrow forever down to join their kin;
blissfully ignorant automatons,
free of will and all our sin.

All around, faint glows lie.
It draws those burrowing beasts
to trample, touch and pry.
No sooner did that faint glow emerge
than it had to say goodbye.
Amongst the forest thicket King,
the Fireflies go to die.