Snow at the Seaside

Sitting
in a Butlin’s holiday camp,
he read Aliens
and wondered why the world of fiction
didn’t have as terrible creatures
as the real?

Trapped in a world
of screaming silences
and of lonesome cavorting
in crowds of thronging people
chanting his name.

Walking through the snow,
book still in hand,
peering out to the dreary sea,
seeing all the people
that have fallen beneath the depths
to death.

That kid didn’t know his real reality.

Teleported into a rapture
of adoration and applause
and emptiness and loneliness
and music bouncing across the walls
and noise and more noise
in quietness.

Adventures clamoured for
became true realities.
He never wanted for anything
because he had nothing of everything
he wanted.
And he filled the gap
with pointless nothings
whispering in his ear.

Now that boy is dead,
but he is not a body in a coffin.
Just like his prison
was his mind,
he realised that dreams
could liberate as well as captivate
if he would just wait,
sow them,
and believe.


Another one of my favourites, I still remember typing this on my first laptop in my flat shortly before I redecorated that week.

Matt K, July 2005