A LIST OF THINGS
A POEM
A quiet night.
A night that is not supposed to be quiet.
A night that was once alive, reverberating, but has since fallen silent.
A memory, long-forgotten.
Family photographs gathering dust.
A sneeze in a darkened auditorium.
Skipping records on a broken player.
The squealing creak of a doorknob that has not been opened in many years.
Dusk.
Dawn.
Neither night nor day.
Bright, black, light.
Luminous, brilliant darkness.
The squeak of a floorboard underfoot, disturbing a silence you did not know was there.
Rooftops with rusted pipes leading to no-where.
Dust settling on windowsills.
Sleeping all day and living all night.
The succinctly specific kind of loneliness that comes from feeling alone in a crowd of people.
Highways to no-where.
Dead-end streets.
Being slowly forgotten by the world around you.
Running from shadows in your sleep.
The light at the end of the tunnel.
The endless dark walls of the tunnel, and the dawning realisavion that you will never reach the light.
Ancient, long-dead gods being stirred once more.
Nothing of importance.
Water, leaking from a tap.
Water in the walls, in the crevasses of your home.
Fire being extinguished by snow.
Dead batteries.
No cell reception.
The smell of dust inside an old typewriter.
The people outside with signs saying that the end is near.
The slow realisation that those people might be right.
A coma so deep that it is mistaken for death.
Concrete.
Smog.
The squelch of sleet under car tires.
Orange sodium street lights.
Smoke signals from a campfire, spelling SOS to anyone who would listen.
The fear that no-one will ever listen.
Oxidised metal.
Knowing that if something happens to you here, it would be weeks before they found you.
Smelling a fire before you see it.
Fog so thick you can barely see your hand in front of your face.
The fact that the universe will not end with a bang, but with a whimper
Empty parking lots.
Slow decay.
And the final orange square of light going out, in the window of a distant high-rise, at the end of a long, long day.
SKM 2023
A night that is not supposed to be quiet.
A night that was once alive, reverberating, but has since fallen silent.
A memory, long-forgotten.
Family photographs gathering dust.
A sneeze in a darkened auditorium.
Skipping records on a broken player.
The squealing creak of a doorknob that has not been opened in many years.
Dusk.
Dawn.
Neither night nor day.
Bright, black, light.
Luminous, brilliant darkness.
The squeak of a floorboard underfoot, disturbing a silence you did not know was there.
Rooftops with rusted pipes leading to no-where.
Dust settling on windowsills.
Sleeping all day and living all night.
The succinctly specific kind of loneliness that comes from feeling alone in a crowd of people.
Highways to no-where.
Dead-end streets.
Being slowly forgotten by the world around you.
Running from shadows in your sleep.
The light at the end of the tunnel.
The endless dark walls of the tunnel, and the dawning realisavion that you will never reach the light.
Ancient, long-dead gods being stirred once more.
Nothing of importance.
Water, leaking from a tap.
Water in the walls, in the crevasses of your home.
Fire being extinguished by snow.
Dead batteries.
No cell reception.
The smell of dust inside an old typewriter.
The people outside with signs saying that the end is near.
The slow realisation that those people might be right.
A coma so deep that it is mistaken for death.
Concrete.
Smog.
The squelch of sleet under car tires.
Orange sodium street lights.
Smoke signals from a campfire, spelling SOS to anyone who would listen.
The fear that no-one will ever listen.
Oxidised metal.
Knowing that if something happens to you here, it would be weeks before they found you.
Smelling a fire before you see it.
Fog so thick you can barely see your hand in front of your face.
The fact that the universe will not end with a bang, but with a whimper
Empty parking lots.
Slow decay.
And the final orange square of light going out, in the window of a distant high-rise, at the end of a long, long day.
SKM 2023