Song from the Grey Zones
________________________


Mockingly rotating
my bedsit's a satellite around my eyes
thoughtlessly gyrating
the colonnade of beer cans displaying no surprise.
The night bird flies, at 2 a.m.
The scuffed silence strives to condemn
my specious soul for being this,
being this
me.

Cosily hissing
the gas fire's legato lectures my morale.
Someone's missing -
A reconvened conference on the banal.
At the far end of the sofa, the empty space
relentlessly unfurls the visions of your face
grinning and speaking my secret,
my secret
name.

Relief-evading
my psyche swabs at its harlequin's mask.
As you are fading
I cannot muzzle my unforseen task.
The grey zones are corroding the lonely, free bird.
I need you to beam me a message, some word
to ensure the dreams we make
we make
real.

Copyright © Jon Harley 2010. All rights reserved.