mirasmus

When did you last let yourself go
on a wooden swing whose creaks
have coloured memories older than
you, reminding you unwittingly of
the things you used to fear. height
wasn't one of them.back then.now,
so many things are so different.
age creeping into your knees.metabolism.
the scramble for company.ear wax.
glass shards in your eye.sudden noises.
Fashion sense.unborn daughters.

swinging to these rhythms of change
life catches up with you in the name
of the holy spirit,the watchman
telling you of the curfew on swings
in this community park, free for all.
Not after 11 pm. (children get
preference all day, giving you a window
too tiny to climb into and make it.)
Reflection is not suited to LED lit AC
rooms, you want to tell him. That the arc
of oscillation is ready to reveal a potential
secret and you are fated to receive it, here.
now. But the haggard man in uniform
helpless to follow administration's orders
expects compliance.and pity, not sure for whom.

The open doors of your house greet you
with a warm stench of something rotten and
the irremediable hope of pushing your fears to
the pit of your stomach with the force of old
over watched sitcoms, where they will lie until
5 am dreams regurgitate them, leaving you
wakefully suspended in mirasmus.
the prisoner of a war of your own making.