They live in a realm of sheltered shadows
Where paired hands are paralysed:
It's a landscape
Where premonitions are collisions, causing the disintegration of colourful characters
long-suffering flashes of melting candles that kiss in the dark
until their flames vanish on hearing the whispers of an ill wind
Mother knew it but she said nothing
Father refused to know it but he said something
So the heard silence and the unheard sound became
Their hourly breath.
Sometimes they are the prey
butterflies feeding on a flower's nectar
Sometimes they are the predator
spiders dangling from their invisible traps
But all the time, they go back and forth
In-between gloom and brightness.
For a phase, it lingers too long
Far from the stretch of normalcy
Where reasons are documented for future readings
Therefore like other eccentrics known to mortals
This conflict has been painted by ancient and modern ink
Even as these ones are the talk of towns
the subject of elderly sneers
Should they apologise for giving unnecessary gifts?
all those threads of hope and ropes of fears
wrapped as words to be seen by none
Should they quench this thirst?
this craving for a popular but uncommon mystery
Or forever bask in their view
Of beautiful things as bluer versions of the known Heaven.
Should they be glad about all the crimson cards
Given sparingly to the seemingly undeserving?
By avoiding sly hearts that play mischievously
They return to the beginning every day
Thus the end replays from the start
And they're best defined as a garden
Where fungi infect a flower
And turn to see another grow from a flame on the ground.
They're a sphere whose centre is riddled with parallel lines
lines whose ends are inches away from a twisted edge that ought to alter their reality