I slowly ground to a halt
on the intersection of the Holy Corner, my mind
blowing hard on Paradise and Whitechapel,
Lord Street and Church, I was crossed
on all sides, spectacles, tentacles, wallet and watch
and the Friday night throng of people passed me by,
invisible, concealed by own thoughts of the weekend ahead
and disguised by looking aimless, a waste
of space and noticed only as being in the way,
get out of the way, get out my way,
the unseen only sighted when they dare make a noise.
I froze, my head a blaze, a meltdown,
a million moths huddling round a dying match
flame, I found I couldn’t breathe properly,
control, confidence and faith lost
right there on Holy Corner,
my own damned spark, my light
immersed in sulphur, I feel friction,
I see the vision of Lucifer and smell the combustion.
The human traffic around me
speeded up, alone, there on Holy Corner
I was alone in a minefield of invisibility
and I no longer had control
of my inner light, the phosphorus
burned in panic and had nothing
to act as a buffer…
I struggle, getting older, finding less
to keep me afloat, buoyant like wet wax in a holder
in a sink of water,
my candle burning at two ends
but also in the middle;
my match head burned through
and without help I slowly fade away
right there on Holy Corner.
Ian D. Hall 2017