Paul Willason Poet Free verse

Special Places

There were special places 
where the mind could hide,
way up in the branches 
of a tall tree, safe within
a ball of leaves,
halfway to heaven.
Or on a bike aimlessly riding
streets when the hypnotic 
hum of tyres and the constant
rhythm broke through 
and sent me
into a pleasant trance
as if the body was floating
free of the ground.

Then there were places
where you couldn't hide,
dark and musty hollows
they called holy places
populated with legions
of dead souls sniffling
their sorrows 
in the candlelit air.
Dark cubicles carrying
the odor of sin,
the sour breath of absolution 
filtering through 
a curtained grill.
And all around, images
of pain plastered on walls
pressing a claim 
for love under the threat 
of everlasting fire
just for refusal.

It all sounds silly now,
the hellish props stacked away
in an unused corner
covered in ash.
Discarded remnants
of an ill informed past.
And yet at times, I am sure,
I can feel something small
still twitch on the end 
of a severed nerve.
I call out. But nobody 
seems to be there.

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