Wednesday, 17 September 2014


I have been many places,
Seen many things
I have worn many faces,
Done many things

All are present in the palm of my hand
Lifeless image bereft of emotion
Soulless eyes stare from the screen
Ingrained is the image reflected
Hidden in the orbs of anonymity
Soul bleeding straight from the heart
Insignificance caught in a moment
Those eyes tell the tale of their past

Portrayed in the grey pallored skin
Is a being I don't recognise
Lines that are carved in reflection
Life driven by riddles and lies
As I stare at the detail before me
The truth swirls around on the screen
What I've become is not what I was
Where I have gone is not where I've been

The journey this sadness has travelled
Laid bare at the press of a button
Flash of the light and it's captured
Caught at this moment in time
Cold image that's now staring back
Sees through the eyes that gaze on
Veil of pretence has been shattered
And with the push of a finger, is gone.

© Fergus Martin

Sep 2014

Monday, 1 September 2014

Unspoken Words

The mind whirls and the thoughts race,
flowing through the consciousness.
A white-water rapid of imaginings,
streaming over waterfalls of circumstance.

All the things you want to say, the truths you want to tell.
You know this time, you know it well.

Another night when sleep is a memory,
a nightmare lost in a forest of dreams.
An illusion woven into tangled branches,
thoughts like leaves blown on Autumn gales.

The dreams you wish to share, the rage you wish to vent.
You know this time, your discontent.

First world problems cycle as you turn endlessly,
every minor detail magnified tenfold in the dark.
Every sinew of your body shaking in disdain,
every jangling nerve playing tunes inside your head.

The pages of your mind hide scripts never to be seen.
You know this time, words scream unsaid.

Finally succumbing to the sanctity of peace,
till whispers in the dawn draw you from your reverie.
The other side of morning draws you to the surface,
to face another day of mindless whisperings.
Another day scratching a living whilst others gloat,
hiding within their sacred towers of self-righteousness.
Staying silent for the fear of vitriolic retribution,
stumble through another day on fractured eggshells.
Retreating behind the fortress walls you have built,
to the safety of silence and a blanket of dreams.

Dreams of peace abandoned as you await another morn.
The peace that never comes, the time that comes again

© Fergus Martin

Aug 2014