Sculpted Emptiness (A Magpie-Inspired Tale)

Strange present.

Sat on my desk.

Don't really know what it does.

Or how it came to pass,

That this was the perfect choice,

For a friend to give me.

I don't get it.

The abstract shapes.

Sat there, starting at me.

As though I should read deeply,

Into the smooth black form,

Like a mistake from the clay room.

Cold to touch.

I run my fingers over.

Shiny surface curling round them.

Strange protrusions.

Why would you put them there?

Feeling lost in semantics.

Feeling guilt.

Creeping from behind my ears.

As the black, hollow form

Repulses me so very much.

Surely I've just missed the point?

Or even the smooth rounded end?

This poem was inspired by the intriguing photo prompt at Magpie Tales. 

The Ticking Clock in the Dusty Room

Inspired by the photo prompt at Magpie Tales

Lying in a hollow room, the musty smell of years gone by creeps over the pealing walls.  Dust, layered deep into the floor curls like a fires plume with each breath.  Ever inch of this place oozes a sense of death, except for the calm, rhythmic ticking of the old grandfather clock.

Muted, wooded thuds as it beats the drums to the gates of hell, or whatever this place might be.  Reaching upwards, the blood starts pounding in his head, incredible pain, almost overwhelming him.  Flickering vision, eyes as though they might burst from his head.  Desperately fighting the swelling sickness, he tries again to reach for the chair.

The rough, silken dusted surface tries to escape from his weak fingers, but he manages to hold on.  The whole room swimming as though is were a virtual reality booth.  Through the dust caked on his face he tastes dampness, instinctively recoiling - his hand returns a terrible shade of red.

Memories fuzzy, like a lost little fly, floating from flower to dinner to why.  An evening of laughter at a beautiful old theatre... was that tonight?  Or a millennia ago?  "Dong!"  His nonsensical thoughts interrupted by chimes, of the familiar friend in the corner of the room.  Nestled within stacks of yellowed papers.

He hauls his trembling frame on to the chair, surveying the bleak, desolate room.  Evidence lying in the carpeted mist, two footsteps in... dragging something heavy.  A terrified giggle escapes.  Involuntarily breaking the grandfather's rhythm, the hypnotic trace momentarily silent..

Then all of sudden, shimmering light floods the room, blinding his bleary eyes and with the bright dust cloud explosion.  Aghast, he looks at the shadow, a familiar shape outlining the door.  Him.  Again.  "Why?" A mumble was all he could muster.  "Why did you have to do this?"

The laughter was so familiar, so purely evil yet so much his own.  "You know why.  You were weak.  So much potential and you failed to seize it!"  The shadow approached his slumped body, barely able to remain on the chair.  The dark, leather jacket that he wore filled his lungs with a scent he knew so well.

It was futile, to fight against him.  It only made him stronger, a victory battle was what he truly craved.  Tracing the letters out in the thick dusty table in front of him, he looked at the shadow and caught his breath. "Go ahead." he sighed, heavy in his heart.

The shadow looked at him without emotion, without anger, pain or remorse.  Sensing something he had never noticed before, not ever having the need to care to look for it.  It had taken this weak, dirty figure in front of him, with the familiar face and familiar hands, reaching out to him now in his hour of need to realise.

The shadow slowly lowered his arms.  Scooping the battered body of the other in them and bracing to take the strain, chair breathing a sigh of relief.  Looking down, he relinquished as he carried out the poor soul, "I see you at last.  I see who you are.  We are one.  Connected.  The same... I'm... Sorry".

Symbolic Escape (a magpie-inspired tale)

Inspired by the photo prompt at Magpie Tales

Treasured memories, of a thousand generations past,
Echo deeply from the spirit of her charm.
Cold stone against skin, a reminder of each soul lost,
But living on as the wisdom in her heart.

She reaches forward, cutting through the cold air,
This sullen place with its cold, bare walls,
Runs her fingers over each groove,
Tracing the metal textures, imagining.

Before this moment, this day, this nightmare,
Who had wore this memory piece?
Left it lying on the cool stone floor,
Of this prison that they have trapped her in.

Perhaps a gypsy as she travelled the forests,
Wearing this trophy around her olive-skinned neck.
Rich ruby hair tied off her worn face by a scarf,
As she held a tiny, crying child in her arms.

She breathes the touch of cool, wet moss,
Seems only too fresh, only to real,
Toes dangling in gurgling streams,
The rhythm of spring beating its bright song.

Perhaps a princess from a tropical paradise,
With flowing brown hair and a bee-stung pout,
Carefree and playful, he laughter like birdsong,
As she wandered through the palace gardens.

How she aches to see the flowers,
Swaying heads in the fresh, cool breeze,
Brushing hair across her spirited face,
As summer breathes its perfect song.

Perhaps a warrior woman, from ancient lands,
Riding her horse across the barren plains,
Her loyal army following eagerly,
Sharpening bloodied blades ready for a fight.

Deep pangs of her sorrow weep for this life,
Where she might climb aboard her horse and ride,
Freely seek those who imprisoned her here,
As autumn's gales rages on and on.

Such intrigue, such promise,
The anonymity driving her imagination,
The corners of the Earth wrapped around her,
A world to explore beyond these four, bleak walls.

Yet deep in her heart the fantasies serve,
Only to quell her desperate fear,
The terror of darkness for infinite time,
That clouds her head like a winter storm.