on the metro

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I felt him long before
I saw him.
but suddenly
there he was
with his shabby black hat,
and many day old beard,
with kind eyes
and wrinkled hands.

together we walked
underground,
through passages of
passages of halls
of halls of entryways
and exits,
passed others like him
and like me.

Up and down
we went with those endless
seeming staircases –
mechanical or otherwise,
me and my companion,
never speaking,
never looking,
just moving along
with the crowd.

He hopped on the same
vessel as me,
a modern mining cart,
shipping souls through
the monotony that seemed
to be life;
all trapped in its metal cage
dreams, hopes, fears and all —
stifling, but
breathing.

And then somewhere
between Bobigny and Place d’Italie
he left,
and I continued forward.

the seagulls cried.

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the seagulls
cried on the day
her ship set
sail to
foreign lands.

he leaned
towards her one
last time and
said to her,
with pleading hands,

“return to me,
my darling love –
no matter how long it
may take.
I’ll be waiting for
you at the port,
even if my heart may
ache.”

the seagulls
cried each day and
night, as he
stood on the withering
docks, his ageing fingers
gripping the once
glittering rock.

but as dusk turned
to dawn and dawn
rose to dusk,
he realised that all that
remained was
his sweetheart’s
one lock.

the seagulls
cried pitifully on
the eve that he died,
their friend had gone
suddenly, without
seeing his bride.

by morning,
a ship
sailed straight into port,
onboard was a
maiden in search
of her lord.

the seagulls
cried.

pandora’s box.

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the past is
like pandora’s box
sitting in the attic,
desperately misplaced,
and haunting us
always
with its shadow.

she knew it
to be true
better than anyone,
her own dark past
a constant companion
in her shallow present.

addiction
was the word
ricochetting like
a poisonous pinball
of images
in that box.

it was the darkest of
her moments
and yet the lightest of
her memories.
a twisted evil
and yet,
a trusted friend.

known to few,
hardly to be shared,
and certainly never
to be accepted
in a society
that washed its hands
with purity of
mud-filled waters.

her past
had marked her skin
with reminders of
deeds never to be undone
and regrets filling
her soul
that were
tearing at the seams
of a once so
flawless future.

and no one,
not even herself,
ever let her
forget it.

the past is
like pandora’s box
and it is
always
breaking open.

 


with love and hope
to everyone
that knows of
struggles.