...its dark outside

it’s dark outside; sharp as needles,
the cold invades layers of warm clothes.
soft drops of icy rain and snow fall
gently on sleeping roofs.

footsteps on the pavement
tread gently, exploring and unsure.
as the night’s snow turns to ice
more falls like silk from above.

cold alleys pass by
mesmerizing reflections peek out.
strange lights sparkle at every corner
many colours – red, orange and green.

the occasional sound of tyres on wet surface
tread gently, exploring and unsure.
flashing red once in a while
exploring the line between speed and safety.

the Tower is dim and the parks empty
famous landmarks lie abandoned and vacant.
no tickets on sale now
no people milling around.

now the footsteps are surer
and the stride confident.
fresh, cool breeze in the air.
making good time, but some way to go.

slowly but surely light asserts itself,
rays of sunlight through the dense shroud of clouds.
soon the houses will be empty
and people everywhere.

he must get back to the start
and begin the transformation to the routine.
solitude and peace will soon disappear
and he will blend into the millions.

for a while there was a thrill (or was it a fear?)
of being alone (but in a world of marvels).
no one to share (and no one to please)
but it was just a morning routine.

December 22, 2009
about my morning jog

dream

there was this guy, just a simple fellow,
enough above and enough below
opened his eyes one morning
and said to himself, while stretching and yawning
“how long have i been asleep?
and are those hours mine to keep?”

he had taken his life where the winds blew
and didn’t realize how fast time flew.
he had not read his life’s text
twenty one day and fifty the next.
“thirty years gone by as one,
how did i miss all the fun?”

as far as he could remember
he was full of life, be it March, July or December.
off to work he would go
eager to give his all and grow.
“you’re a great guy they said,
nothing to stop you from getting ahead.”

day after year of his life went by
he worked, he worked, all he would do was try.
he did what he could and always thought
that he was not the best but better than a lot.
“did that make sense at all?
or was it just to soften the fall?”

stuck in a rut of a life so cluttered
he never rose above to see what really mattered.
it was his strength and also his weakness
that he didn’t see the danger, the depth and the darkness.
“was it so since the beginning?
or, all the while, become more threatening?”

into his life people came and from it people went
he never stopped to ask what it meant.
they know what they want just like i do
part of the plan, like the one for himself he drew.
“is that how i got to where I am today?
weary at night and tired by day.”

all that happens around him he doesn’t understand
strange people with strange habits in a strange land.
a small fish in a big ocean he has become
and he can only hear the constant hum.
“it’s the water, you know
just like me, going where the pipes want it to go.”

it really was only in his mind
the hum of a toy, the kind you could wind.
running along, swift at first but grinding to a halt
just running out of steam but without a fault.
“i am that wind-up toy,
old, plastic, and of no use even to the little boy.”

how long had he been asleep?
and were all those hours his to keep?
twenty, strong and all his life before
he realizes as the alarm drowns his snore.
“although very real it did seem
it was all just a dream!”

now feeling refreshed, he awakes
as above the horizon the sun breaks.
off to work he went forgetting
all about the dream he had and, at the end of the day expecting,
“you’re a great guy”, they said
nothing to stop you from getting ahead.”

running the wrong way

at two, you learn to run,
and it seems like fun.
when you get going you don’t really know
if you go where you want to go.

at five, you simply run.
when school is done
and you go out to play
all you want to do is let your legs flay.

at fifteen, you run after pleasure
and nothing can measure
up to the joy of discovering
a new thing that’s exciting.

at twenty-five, you run for fun
because you know there is none
that can get you despondent
in your pursuit of merriment.

at thirty-five, you run against time.
every clock that can chime
reminds you that you have to feed
several souls full of greed.

at forty-five, you run to get away
every time the sun greets the day
all you want is to escape
from all the red tape.

at fifty-five, you run to save
so you have to be really brave
to attain the grace
that you promised yourself in the first place.

at sixty-five, you run only if you have to
but you really don’t want to
because you’re tired of the dreary
race to destiny.

at seventy-five, you realize that you’ve been
(and that you really should have seen
much earlier in the day)
that you were running the wrong way.


sv: 21st July 2009

for some reason the titular phrase has been stuck in my head for days, so I thought i’d start writing again with this in mind as the theme.