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"Cocoon"

They say...
a New World 
traces over the old,
leaving the unaware,
erased, far behind 

the old unaware, 
left far behind,
crawls the walls
in its web of lies
spinning suspect 
strings of silk 
in the air

glistening diamond nets
slick and sticky with the sense 
of capturing a life 
drowning in teardrops
that camouflage the trap it set,
feeling little of nothing
harbouring in its well 

tended lack of empathy,
its tricks of confidence, 
walking the mucky 
sterile floors of Freedom 
shining a smile that hides
a crime far beyond incarceration - 
another terrible premeditated theft, 

there they walk, that paragon,
cruising, no less, with the 
cargo they’ve thieved
from that which is remissed,
they talk the talk 
and walk the walk, 
and they live and breathe,

brokering shallow promises 
and stealing dreams 
of the sleeping Other's 
blueprints
of a rich inner world, 
a beautiful life, the architecture
within that which sleeps, quite complex;

while The Cocooned sleep,
exhausted, they find it 
succours them that pleasurable
avoidance, it is an isolated habit, 
a symptom brought about 
by breathing in the constant untruths 
of dodgy Freedom salesmen

The Cocooned, 
close their eyes
returning to that safe 
dark far away removed place,
it is warm and comfortable,
and there The Cocooned 
find themselves at peace,

and The Cocooned sleep 
and they sleep, 
closing out the noise 
of the denials 
of the paroledphiles
and their cloistered 
devil's advocates;

it would seem, 
for many seasons 
The Cocooned has 
contracted this sleeping 
disease, lost in the 
ghostly cathedrals and 
spooky vestal halls of poetry

forging friendships 
with other 
phantom beings
who partake in the art 
of seeking answers 
through the writing 
of witchery, 

casting their spells
of grisled beauty, 
romance gone amuck
the love for lost children,
wars, their vengeful birthright,
blue skies, daffodils, sunshine, 
holy ghosts, broken bread 
and wine, chalices of blood, 
the letdown of  milk and 
hellelujah honey – 

far far away cocooned

in the far removed place 
of Love and bitter endings
they dream 
of new beginnings,
they turn as they sleep,
hibernating on the chance of victory 
in deep dreams to be achieved, 

erased, left far behind;

They say a new world 
traces over the old
leaving the old unaware 
erased, far behind 

yet in the highest corner 
of the room, there is a cocoon
hidden, unthreatening,
it’s been just hanging there
for years and years,  
sometimes you can 
even imagine you can 
see it move 

inside 
the web of lies 
wrapped around the treasure 
at the core of the cocoon, 
witness the thing 
still beating 
loud and clear,  

Love 
is still fed constantly 
to that thing
with the scarlet fat of Truth, 
it is blood coloured vermillion
and pumping Pimpernel 
it feeds on the grit of 
strange hymns and poésie 

and unaware, 
it sleeps and it dreams,
that it is glory bound,
cocooned like a mummy 
in vast decades of spider webs,
it waits and it waits
and it waits, and waits

the hidden blows by demons repeat
the bludgeon in a bad dream, like insanity 
the dare of the thing inside 
inconceivably upstartful, continues to fan 
the miniscule embers of hope
holding still a little light
to firestart better larger things

the patience of it 
is hard earned, 
and commendable, 
it is like a little death bit by bit,
inconseqential, to observers
the thing inside burns truth-full
and it becomes exalted, well lit

the observers are oblivious 
to the Light of real things,

the smaller life of the better,
that remains living inside
the living shell of itself, 
like a soul - it carries those 
it meets in their dreams -
it carries them along 
for the grand ride, 
they have a purpose,
they have a role

there its past is exchanged 
for better currency, 

the myths and legends 
embedded in dark woods
the lost lovers of strange ghosts
of former beings monked, 
all meet The Cocooned there,
dressed in scrolls of hidden shining, 
gems like Re’ems of poetry, 

these odd 
elfen beings and spectrals

walk The Cocooned to streams, 
where they are dunked 
and baptised forthwith – by 
overzealous do-gooding priests,
they are then intolerably carried away
on the backs of brookish books
to become Calypso creatures 
swimming a Life in deep deep oceans - 

meanwhile, back to reality, 

buffeted 
in its cocoon 
by slights and the tawdry
breezes of misfortune
The Cocooned rolls over
and creates ...
a new world, for, 
it is still growing 
after all

the heart of it 
pierces through
the “T”hird eye, 
(capital T for Trouble),
situated firmly open
above a sharp mind 
and a recalcitrant 
spine of steel

sticks and stones 
opens further the mind 
of the sleep cursed Cocooned, and
like a scarab inside,
the idle heart -
to assuage its hunger -
feeds the smaller bugs to its mind, 

nutritious 
little morsels, like 
the trust, to believe
in birthing 
something unseen,
something entirely new
and gloriously revolutionary;

the mind listens to 
the heart’s ideas, and
for once...it doesn’t think -
it remains still and cloistered, 
and like all things 
fed “Love”,
the mind is now opening, 
it begins to feel

the mind feels something 
new and exciting in higher realms
warmed by a strange Light 
that penetrates The Cocooned
from the heart inside out,
and the sadness rises
on the divine notes 
of dulcimer music and poetry

what is fed Love, 
is never left behind
with the old unaware 
erased, walking far away
hand-in-hand with the dead
far below;

They say a new world 
traces over the old 
leaving the unaware,
erased, far behind 



Candide Diderot. ‘24 






Re’em. 
Kali.
"Tarantula"/This Mortal Coil (Lyrics).
"Kubla Khan"/Samuel Taylor Coleridge, excerpt.
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