In This Hall of Mirrors

photo credit: D()MENICK In the Night via photopin (license)

There are many faces reflecting back at me.
Some old, some young, a few wise but more foolish.
Yet, all tell the truth, after a fashion.
Even when the truth is a lie;
A deceit wrapped about a bitter pill
To make the medicine that much easier to stomach.
Such are the lies we tell ourselves in this hall of mirrors.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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This Beautiful Hell

photo credit: Crysco Photography via photopin (license)

The beautiful shell
Disguises the beautiful hell
Loving you has led me to.

The miracle of this moment
Hides the jagged edge
And the potential of a fall.

But still, I carry on
For what choice do I have?
Except giving in

And waking up to the cold
Without you.
Without you to hold.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Flood Tide

photo credit: amsterdamfan My Own Insanity via photopin (license)

If we should drown
Then we should drown together.
If these emotions should overwhelm.
If these waves should overturn,
Should capsize this flimsy craft.
Send me down to Davy Jones.

If the Arctic current of an icy sea
Should wrap its frigid limbs about the fragility of me.
I ask no more than to stretch out my hand
To feel my fingers entwined with yours.
To know, that we will go down together.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Lie of the Land

photo credit: Aphersis Keep out via photopin (license)

Wind-blown,
Secrets fly like the night
On wings of darkness.
To a rhythm nobody feels
And even less see.

Nature lies,
As natural as breathing.
Until death comes stealing,
Creeping, out of an obsidian glass poured.
The fatal blow dealt.

Undreamed.
Poisons and pains. Panic
Flies on the wings of a bat
Chittering, repeating its refrain, sings
Of ‘Secrets and Lies’, of ‘Secrets and Lies’.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Knowhere

photo credit: Marco Ascrizzi P1070949 via photopin (license)

A man took a bus
Went searching for his heart.
He’d left his home of forty years,
Packed a bag – filled it with memories
And assorted other dusts.
He watched as the driver pulled out into traffic
And joined the motorway.
He watched as everything he’d ever believed
Dwindled through the window
Of a bus bound to nowhere. Until all that was left
Was a collection of smudges on the glass.
Like a dim, shadowed, constellation of stars.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.