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