one
and maybe it was inevitable
that i would curl up like the proverbial
dormouse in a burrow.
another metaphorical disappearing act
where i’d hide and go to ground
until it all died down.
deep inside my dry hideaway
away from the dank and damp forest floor.
doing my best to keep quiet, attentive.
hands over my ears, my being attuned
to immune myself from all the sound that’s around me.
raising me above the racket
so that i could eclipse the static
and disconnect me from everything and everyone
that interferes with being one.
believing my magic
could make the bickering shrills songless and mute;
the wind-whisked leaves diminished to mere movement;
the buzz of hiving bees,
bereft of score, just in motion.
spellbound
forgive me.
for if you were to ask what were my dreams and my goals,
they’d remain undisclosed, all holed up, left untold.
for i fear the fact that when they are spoken,
if they should dare pass my lips
and be there in the open,
the merest hint of their uttering
would prevent them from happening
(or at least puncture ambition to the point of abandonment).
the attainment of aims, it seems, spellbound by admittance.
so i’ll tell you almost wants and nearly desires.
the fire in my belly coming across not so hot.
careful not to craft too particular replies -
answering imperfectly, all seemingly unwise.
and therefore don’t be surprised if my style seems apathetic,
that i’m somewhat distracted, slightly compromised.
i’m just protecting myself from some predictable fall,
keeping in thrall
to make the endgame, my prize.
Flight of the dragonfly 