Bedtime Story

It starts with a murmur,
The misspelling of a four letter word,
A declaration that you cant be heard.
The silence that follows,
Nothing moves in the dark,
No dim light flickers, no ringing
Found in a hollow heart.
And then when light comes filling in-
Those fragile rays of truth. Your
Mouth spilling lie after lie
After lie. White and black and
Colourless. Quiet fiction to
Please an easy nation, help her
Rest. Only to wake in turmoil
And wonder if its for the best
To let a lying heart and
Unchanged mind live on her land,
Her soil.

The Western Man's Need To Cry

He shares things with me.
He wants me to know where he grew up,
where his family lived,
what childhood places of joy existed when he was young.
Before, this desire of his would have meant
something deep and beautiful,
displayed a need to reveal and have me
appreciate the things that matter to him,
an invitation of sorts into his life.
But now,
Now, this invitation can be perceived
as a mere indulgence in his own perception of himself and who he is.

However perhaps that is the most cynical way to look at him.
He has saved me, and I him,
in the darkness of night,
when we lay,
worlds apart,
in some kind of despair,
with only language to comfort,
words so desperately needed to be heard.
A poignant love affair of sorts
That one looks back on while lines crease
Their face. The things that are,
And were.