In the dead Monday of the mind

 

In that long dark

night-time of the soul

it can feel cold and bleak.

The sounds of the trees

creak and bend. Unwanted

thoughts descend

and icicles ride your cheek.

 

It can hurt

when loneliness sits on a bed

in the dead Monday of the mind.

It can be unkind. When your own

reflections strangle your imagination.

Leaving you frustrated.

Gasping,

grasping for a

stray moonbeam

to clasp on to.

 

During those lonesome times

the air can feel heavy

like a stack of paper bricks

piled precariously upon your chest.

You breathe less.

In case the motion brings the whole wall

Crashing, like an ocean wave against

the mental cliffside that you have climbed

for so many lives that your

fingertips bleed just at the thought.

 

But in the darkness,

behind the looming terror,

away from the static of the void,

there is magic.

It drifts gently around, sifting

through the stardust view,

like flour through fingertips.

If you can catch it,

you will feel the clouds lift,

and as they part

hope starts to sound like

a harp of happiness, and light

winds its way into your heart,

whilst fear scarpers away

back into the dark.

 

And in that long night-time

of the soul. It can feel cold

and bleak. But when you brush away

the creeping vines that cling

so tightly around your mind.

You sometimes see magic.

The nocturnal,

the blur of golden fur

flurrying against the black,

as the fleeting fox flies by, seeking scraps,

the way the stars blink back.

The way the moon smiles and sighs,

looking down with loving eyes,

and these times make the spirit fly.