Soft fluorescent candle-light flickers
warped shadows: the Forms
in this cave.
Crickets chirping: a choir of beeps
surrounding him like his yellowed books.
A light, the light! Oh, Paradise.
You need to go now, it’s okay.
The Guide; the Muse.
Let go.
ABANDON ALL HOPE!
Clear!
What a shock: this green light I reach for
in this tunnel of light.
Oh, innocence; oh tyger tyger burning bright
so gently you came rapping
tapping at my chamber door;
in my madwoman attic nevermore!
Time of death?
A new gyre unfolds once more.
William Blake
Legs stop swingin’
And I made a rural pen,
And I stain’d the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs,
Every child may joy to hear.
– From ‘Introduction’, ‘Songs of Innocence’, William Blake
When legs stop swingin’
sitting on a high chair,
and the spontaneous bursts
of Crayola-coloured imaginings
fade into a soft grey despondency;
When no more glittering unicorns
appear in the fluffy flowing clouds,
and waking up becomes
the first effort of the day;
When I-love-you is replace
with love-you automatically spewed,
and fantasies of worlds inside the mind
become longings for the weekend;
When sandcastles on beaches
are ignored in favour of the Sunday Times,
And ice-cream truck sirens
become an invasive clamour;
When children cross over
and transition snuffs out their flames,
sadly this when life
their ethereal innocence claims.
Mr Individualist 