The Days of Youth

How I long for childhood days of the past,

When simple fancies filled my youthful head

But those summer days, so short did they last

Now just the wintry paths are left to tread.

My time now is filled with nothing but fears,

Of money to earn, and of food to eat

And how to while away these tiresome years

Until, at last, with my Maker I meet.

My heart aches to feel the sun yet again,

To sense its rays bathe my unworthy face

To escape from this world riddled with men,

To one plagued with nothing but infinite Grace.

I pray that my time in this world flows fast

To live once more childhood days that have passed.

Forbidden Fruit

Have an apple my dear,

One bite and all your dreams will come true.

One bite. Dead.

Is my mother trying to kill me?

Cruelly she lets it lie,

A temptation

A reminder of my sin

The last time I gave in.

How repugnant my body appeared to me after.

I covered it for an eternity

So that no one could see my shame.

The snake!

Pushing me away from my paradise

Of ribs and hips and collar bones

And hollow cheeks, a concave form

The beauty she tries to steal for her own.

Each new apple is greener than the last

She is jealous, she is

Of my thinner body

And my fragile frame

But I will not break.

The Looking Glass

I wonder, is it a looking glass

Or a look-in glass?

Where only the latter defines the subject as we

Who watch, and not the mirror that sees.

For with a ‘looking’ glass, the usual phrase,

 The mirror is the subject executing the gaze,

Thus the mirror that looks, it that can view,

All the things that we say, and those that we do

So why do we have the feeling of peering inside

Behind that glass pane where nothing can hide

When in fact our reflection, does it have more control?

Is it we who are playing the mimicking role?

We think of a world trapped in that frame,

Where the lives of the people are played out the same,

Yet if the glass does the looking, it is we who are trapped,

Only copying the life someone else has mapped.

Thus for our whole lives have we had it wrong?

We’ve been fooled, we’ve been tricked and yet all along

Our face the reflection, actions a simulation

While the clue was in the word and its devious translation.

The View from Behind

I seem to have a tendency

To look back at things too long

Meaning I can only see

The things that now are gone

In only looking back behind

To people that we’ve been

The only view we’ll ever find

Is that which we have seen

For the view is somewhat restricted

If our backs are at the front

We can only do the things we did

And win what we have won

If only I could turn

To face the future not the past

I’d realise the things for which I yearn

Were never meant to last

If only I could see the hope

Of the path I am to take

Then maybe I could learn to cope

And my heart would not so ache

For those times gone and people met

For all the broken ties

I’d find it easier to forget

In pursuit of brighter skies

But I’m moving backwards just because

I won’t have to let things go

I’ll never move past who I was

Its far too difficult to grow


By Cachella Smith

On the Edge of the Bright Side

It’s hard to see clearly, when a blinding light

is shining at you from the side that is bright.

Where there are pathways and choices leading to hope,

Pursued by a people who know how to cope.

Meanwhile, you’re on a side that dwells in an ink

So dark, so demanding that you could not think

Of a life in the light, a life lived without it,

A life in a world where the darkness is lit.  

You appear to be trapped, looking on at the fun,

Held back in the shadows and removed from the sun,

Your devils, your demons, they’re holding you back,

From pursuing the happiness you so desperately lack.

So why can’t you transfer to the bright side of life,

Where they are lacking in troubles, in pain and in strife?

Oh, my dear, isn’t it clear, couldn’t you see all along,

That a star cannot shine once its darkness has gone?

Cachella Smith