and he said, your heart, why is it so black

to which she responded, because, it matches my shoes

asleep beneath the earth

The white noise swelling within his head,

his chest begins to shake

the pressure builds until it's all he can do to scream

in ecstasy, in terror

the voice, he can feel it, guttural and demon-like

suddenly, his own hand grips his throat

and though he cannot speak, he longs to hear the words his lips will fight to say

this will not his own, he struggles to give it a name

a tremble in his chest, a long exhale and all is gone

silence

he knew it was here

he knew it had finally found him

we all play our roles

He is the curiosity and the satisfaction

that killed the cat and brought him back

only to reenact it

a clever name for a clever peace

"You may now exchange . . . sign . . . peace . . ." his broken English trails off into a nasally mumble. I look up from inspecting my cuticles to catch hundreds of seniors, heads jerking, eyes searching frantically for another hand to shake. Between the excitement and smiles the ancient fanatics can't seem to hold back, it feels like some sort of game; a game not even the oldest and wisest of us can resist. "Peace be with you," - handshake. The whispers begin to swell and soon the entire church is crowded with false implication. But surely, just as soon as it began, it slows to a stop. The decorated room falls back into its silent contemplation, and the smiles on the faces of the people, the young and the old, fade with their words, already forgotten.

but you can't help but write it down

you told me to watch my pompous

well, yours just ran away

scuff

Straining himself to remember the days when he was free of scuff marks, when the walls were freshly primed and the flyleaf free of anonymous ramblings; when every page had been as he was, blank and unwritten. These were the days in which he could ponder without fear, for he could not speak. And it was the spoken word that would quickly become his downfall. Oh, how he bowed to it, so vigilant in his desire to please. Trapped, like a rat within a maze, he would grasp for years, never successful in his aims. Until, one day, he would secure his first; his efforts realised. For every unspoken wonderment, a new means of conveyance. Only he was wrong. There would be no flourishing, no spectaculars as he'd expected. For every question, and with them every answer will all have gone. Because after years of chasing his own tail, running in circles, striving to communicate, he'll have forgotten what it was like to be a canvas, untouched. But no matter, now a master of the art, he would apply his own colours. And paint he did, a true artist. The things he could do with them, the endless possibilities, all of which he found within the circles he'd created. And round and round he went, speaking nonsense the world had never known. How quickly he became fascinated with what had enslaved him so.