What do we see when we look to the horizon?

A summit?
A skyline?
A sunrise?

What lies at the edge of tomorrow?
What is found at the point where land meets sky?

Do we see our aspirations realised?
A graph of our progress growing ever taller,

Or do we even notice?
So focused on moving forward we’re blind to what’s ahead,

Until one day we realise everything has changed,
That the progress has happened without our knowledge,
That it would have happened without us,

We turn to catch what’s already lost,
Only to be met by another horizon,

The past fading into the night,
As the future rises behind us once again,
Dragging us into a new dawn,
A world of steel and stone,

A world without reprieve or regret,
Dwarfing our memories,
Supplanting our history,
Moving only forward,
Towards that eternal border,

What do we see when we look to the horizon?

Submerged in dust of earth and men,
A face lies staring towards the sun,
Unblinking gaze of white glazed glass,
A distant look to times long past,

Further on a smooth peach hand,
Sprouted from the death and sand,
On the wrist we find some words;
Forgotten follies, pristine, preserved:



When one door closes,
Another opens,

Only this door is a little smaller,
Well, maybe more than a little,
It’s more of a hatch really,
Almost a dog flap if we’re being honest —
Something one would have to crawl through,
And it seems to be leading below ground,
I guess it could be described as a sort of entrance to a pit,
And the sign above it reads, “Waste Disposal”,
In fact, upon closer inspection, that’s what it is:
A trash pit.
It’s a trash pit.

The trash pit is now open,
Hop in.

Three years ago the “P” key broke on my laPtoP,
I’ve been coPying and Pasting the character ever since,

I never before realised how Prolific it was,
Or how difficult it could be to find,
But I adaPted
Learned to live without,
Soon it became normal,
A routine like any other,

Over time my shift key broke too,
No more question marks,
Or exclamation Points,
So I exPressed myself in other ways,
Less Punctuation,
More emojis,
Less subtlety,
More intent,

Other keys soon fell to the wayside,
The number one,
The “at” symbol,
The backsPace,
(That wsa a doozy),
Though I was unaware,
Each loss shaPed the way I wrote;
The wya I interacted with the world,
The way the world interacted with me,

It wasn’t until I used another keyboard,
A fully functioning one,
That I realised what I was missing,
As if a part of me had been returned,
An extra limb I’d forgotten I needed,

The revelation came at a Price:
With my ignorance shattered,
My laPtoP’s shrtcomings crashed over me,
No matter how I tried, I couldn’t unsee its failings,
The missing “P” was a hole I could not fill,

Then one day someone told me I could actually get the whole keyboard rePaired quite easily,
But that seems like a lot of effort.

They were searching for the source,
The origin of the idea,
They combed through countless reams of text,
Immersing themselves in the antiquated records,
But whenever they thought they’d found it,
They found something which preceded it,
Something which had influenced or instigated it,

They meticulously traced back the idea’s evolution,
Each iteration intrinsically linked,
Until they came to the first writings,
The first thoughts of man committed to stone,
But what inspired these?
So they looked outward,
Towards other creations,
Pottery and paintings on the walls of caves,
Tools made from flint,

But these too were born of something else,
Catalysed by an unknown element:
Maybe it was man’s need to be remembered,
The innate drive to exist long after their demise —
Or maybe it went beyond that —
An animal instinct,
Bred long before humanity walked the earth;
Maybe they were one and the same…
Onward they continued,
Backwards through time,
From ape to bird to prehistoric bug,
Searching for the spark that ignited the flame,

Finally they reached the point that all life stemmed from,
The first cell,
An unassuming amoeba,
It was pure,
Filled with potential it couldn’t comprehend,
It was hard to conceive anything coming from this,
Let alone everything,

They marvelled at it,
Basking in its promise,
As if waiting for it to reveal something to them,
Though they knew it could not,
At last they cleared their collective throat,
The taste of finality thick in the air,
The weight of the impending conclusion bearing down on them all,

“So I guess this is how dubstep started. Cool.”

“Choo choo” goes my train of thought,

“Choo choo” as it chuffs through meadows,
Chugging thick smoke into the sun,

“Choo choo” as it trundles over bridges,
Its reflection teetering tentatively below,

“Choo choo” as it cuts into the heart of the mountain,
Hurtling through the abyss,

“Choo choo” as it emerges out the other side,
Irrevocably changed,

“Choo Choo”.

He was searching for oblivion,
It wasn’t hard to find.

The boy had just chopped his fifth piece of firewood when the wolf appeared,
Snarling as it circled the clearing,
Seeing the wolf, the boy hopped atop the stump of a fresh felled tree,
And cried out for help,
Upon hearing the boy’s cries carried across the hill, the townsfolk rushed to his rescue,
Arriving just in time to chase the wayward wolf away,

Later in the week, as the boy resumed his chipper chopping, the wolf returned,
So the boy cried out again,
From atop his steadfast stump,
And again, the townsfolk came to his aid,

Days later the wolf returned,
So the boy cried out anew,
But by now the people had grown tired of this routine,
They had better things to do;
Had their own problems to deal with,
So they told themselves the boy would be okay,
That he needed to learn how to deal with his own problems,
That he had been asking for it by going up there again,

When the boy didn’t return later that day the townsfolk pretended not to notice,
When his parents came looking later that night they claimed ignorance,
Denying any knowledge of the boy or his whereabouts,
After a few weeks of dedicated denial they began to believe their own deceits,
Altering their memory of the boy:
He had always been trouble;
A drain on the townsfolk,
In fact — he had cried “wolf” even when there wasn’t one,
Just to waste their time,
The townsfolk decided there was a lesson to be learned from all of this.

I remember the good times,
Spent with you in my arms,
Your tender warmth on cold nights,
The way you made me laugh,

Always there when I needed you most,
A shoulder to cry on,
The first I called for a good time,
You brought out the best in me;

Encouraged me to try new things;
Introduced me to half my friends,
My first amour,
You helped me become a man,

And countless ways you inspired me,
Songs and poems written with you on my mind,
My constant muse,
I owe you so much,

But also you take,
Time disappears when I’m with you,
You keep me in bed for days on end,
I get anxious just thinking about you,

And when I ended it you were always still there,
Hanging out with my friends,
Ever the more popular,
Never a dull moment with you,

It made me jealous to see others laugh with you,
A reminder of our time together,
How you made me feel,
Your taste,

And so I took you back,
Though I never really had a choice,
I was lost without you;
Your intoxicating love,

And so our on-again/off-again affair continues,
Our dance to the death,
My parents warned me you were trouble,
But now it’s too late,

In sickness and in health,
For better or worse,
To have and to hold,
My can of Dutch Gold.