What comes up from the depths Is not invited.
The cold hard facts from the ocean’s floor arrive
as a host of information
like gate crashers at a wedding
to remind the bride and groom
that sores fester beneath their fine clothes,
and secrets linger in dusty hallways,
bones decomposed in some forgotten room
undisturbed by sunlight.
This pale hand of guilt operates to tweak the
functioning machinery of day
We are laid bare and picked apart,
subjected to voices speaking in bewildering tongues.
The faces of night reflect in mirrors manipulated by
an insane projectionist, a sort of god of randomness
If there once was a whole man he has been splintered into shards
swirling in flux under our lids.
We have slipped from brave front to the helplessness
of the dead.
The night examines wounds,
packages of grief pulled from corners and dragged to centre stage
that may set hearts thudding and terror to spring.
There is no armour strong enough to protect us
from ourselves .