I Have Been There

 

I have been there –

there, where Darkness reigns undisputed

and Light weeps in a corner,

unable to raise her eyes and shine.

 

I have been there –

there, where whispers are arthritic dots

in a world of clashing sounds,

and tears freeze in the glacial

landscape of the deserted heart.         

 

I have been there -

there, where hands are slapped

when they reach out for help,

and laughter is not the joy of children on a playground,

but the raucous sound of drunken demons

celebrating their victory.

 

I am still there,

unable to fold my wounded hands

into a prayer that won’t be heard,

stopping my ears from the black-booted judges

finalizing my execution,

making sure the rope is strong enough

for my frail, bruised body.

 

***

 

Plan

 

Grab the stars before they explode.

Tickle joy until it takes notice of you.

Throw sorrow in the naughty corner

until it promises to give you a break.

Mend dreams ripped apart by hatred and unbelief.

Laugh at deliberate attempts to hurt you.

Forgive even when you shouldn’t.

 

***

 

Apocalypse

 

The bell tolled one last time,

the sky went dark like a tired eye

that has given up on the truth,

the earth burst open to swallow the wicked,

but the coffee on the kitchen table kept smoking,

waiting for someone to start a new day

that never came.

 

***

 

Carpe Diem

 

Down, down here,

moment!

Stop flying around,

settle on the branch of life

and sing.

 

***

 

The Fight

 

I haven’t given up the fight.

I have given up fighting against people

because people fear the light.

Light could expose them.

 

But the inner revolution is still going on,

and what a revolution it is.

It is the revolution of the heart,

stamping its feet against the antics of reason,

the revolution that dares to say no to hatred,

the revolution encouraging to touch

and even hug the untouchable.

 

People don’t understand.

Maybe they can’t;

maybe they don’t want to.

Push, push, push!

Remember Gart of “A Stop at Willoughby”?

 

Push, push, push!

They will condemn you

if you want to breathe

or smell flowers

or go barefoot

to feel the dew on your toes.

 

Push, push, push!

Until Willoughby is a collective effort,

its only reality is at the rear of a funerary car.

 

***

 

Dance

 

Dance the dance of the heart,

and it does not matter if your steps are not perfect

or if your outfit is a bit out of place.

Just dance.

 

Sing the song of love,

and it does not matter if nobody listens

or even if they laugh at you.

Let them laugh.

 

Shake hands with the sick,

and it does not matter

if you are then shunned yourself.

Diana did because she knew there are darker dangers

and that the worst sickness is the sickness inside,

the sickness of those who cannot forgive or love.

 

Dance.

Sing.

Love.

Forgive.

 

***

 

Dreams

 

The light went off and dreams started.

The dreams were voracious,

feeding on hope,

hope crouching in a corner of the unconscious

like a scared child

who had a big finger pointed at her

in merciless accusation.

 

Hope had finally found her voice,

but the dreamer didn’t listen to hints and whispers,

waiting for the jackpot,

the change eliciting envy,

the one-way ticket to victory.

 

Hope tugged at the dreamer’s sleeve in the dream,

and the dreamer finally woke up

and had a sugar-free coffee in the kitchen

before starting yet another day

in black and white.

 

***

 

Farewell to Light

 

Indifference everywhere,

we keep going without knowing why,

gaze that kills,

eyes and mind empty

like a freshly cropped field.

 

Hate everywhere,

we stretch out our hand to strike misfits

and those who still dare to smile.

No reason to smile –

are you laughing at me?

 

Darkness everywhere,

we incarcerated the sun

in a cell with no window,

not even a barred one.

 

Light reveals too much.

shows too much.

Light loves.

We don’t want love.

We don’t want light –

we, the iron soldiers of the 21st century.

 

Eins, zwei, drei…

Eins, zwei, drei –

straight into the darkness.

Eins, zwei,…

 

***

 

I Have Waited Too Long

 

I have waited too long.

Opportunities are turning their back on me,

disdainful,

a grin on their pale face.

 

I have waited too long.

The horizon is turning darker,

foggy as a morning in London.

 

I have waited too long.

The hints have turned to whispers,

scary as the phone calls of a serial killer.

 

I have waited too long.

but my palms are not flat in a coffin yet,

and my fingers still itch to curl into a fist,

ready to punch destiny.

 

***

 

Silent Enemy

 

She wakes up in the middle of the night,
heart racing, memories flooding in,
the stage of her mind a constant battlefield -
PTSD, a dark shadow that never fades.

Flashbacks, nightmares, relentless fear,
invisible wounds that cut deep,
the ghosts of the past a torture chamber -
peace surrendered to angst.

She is a warrior, strong and brave.

She carries the weight of a thousand battles,
invisible scars that no one sees -
PTSD, the silent enemy within.

With each breath she fights to survive,
to reclaim her life and find the light.
In the battle she finds her strength -
PTSD may linger, but she will win in the end.

 

***

 

Broken Toys

 

Innocence lost, shattered dreams,
a childhood ruined, torn at the seams,
laughter replaced by silent screams.

Broken toys and shattered hearts,
a world once bright now torn apart,
memories stained with sombre marks.

No more play, no more joy,
just the echoes of a broken toy -
a ruined childhood, painful decoy.

 

***

 

Wrongfully Accused

 

In the shadows of doubt and fear,
a soul stands accused, unjustly smeared -
whispers of guilt, a tarnished name,
innocence lost in a world of shame.

Eyes filled with sorrow, heart with pain,
fighting against a tide of disdain -
silenced cries, unheard pleas,
bound by the chains of false beliefs.

Keep fighting, soul, never sway –

the truth will triumph one day.

Justice will prevail,
and the wrongfully accused will finally set sail.

 

***

 

Japanese-Style Poetry

 

wheat swinging in the wind,

dancing its last tango

before transfiguration

 

***

 

fragments of sun,

on and off

on my tired eyelids –

flutter of wings

 

***

 

clouds

drifting in the sky,

nagging memories –

what was it all about?

 

***

​

All poems © Marie Faverio