"What is absurd and monstrous about war is that men who have no personal quarrel should be trained to murder one another in cold blood" -- Aldous Huxley
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i go to sleep to the rain
its pitter-patter in my brain;
i am in that room again
my Paris boudoir,
French whisperings
and yet,
i sleep alone.
i draw the curtains
just before dawn
before the sun rises,
sky is clear
rain dispersed.
menacing clouds on the horizon
sit black, silent,
yet imminent
ever-present
memories
ebbing and flowing.
i rush to the sea
its immensity swallows me whole
my doubts and forebodings
diminished
warmth emanates from the Sydney sky
as i float far from shore,
far from the lonely crowd
spinning aimlessly in their heads,
living without life
breathing without air
looking but not seeing.
i see it in their eyes
glazed over, blind;
they eat the bread
and drink the wine
offered
from gloved hands
without a questioning glance,
devoid of love or gratitude.
i stay away,
a stowaway
in my sea-bed
far
from those lonely people.
we are trained to fear
the unfamiliar
to withdraw
from the unknown
yet the tantalising allure
that issues from
dark and secret places
irresistibly
draws
brave and intrepid souls
that special minority that
thirsts
for more of life’s
offerings
prizes won only by those willing
to take a chance
on a possibility
of greater fulfilment,
or a rare and exotic prize
the timid pedestrian majority
stand frozen
at the threshold,
‘fools rush in,’ they are taught
but others
sense more
something special,
a bounty
worth gambling
soul and sanity for --
every challenge measures
its own reward.
‘go there,’ if you dare;
and hear that faint refrain:
'The Gods pay tribute to those who dare
and homage to those who succeed.'
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