Mythical Night
Oh Night, Oh Calm and Mythical Night,
Have you not seen the moon? How bright!
‘Tis not the sun but the twilight,
To the earth holding tight.
How soothing! Cool and warm in winter’s night,
Calling it the noon, ‘‘tis all right’’
See the stars twinkling at height,
A moth gently flying around a streetlight.
The trees singing in a soft breeze,
And their shadows dancing in sweet harmony,
Tomorrow night all trees shall freeze,
But tonight listen to the crickets humming their lullaby in melody.
Monster in Your House
Hold on to the curtains tight,
Pull down the bruised red blind,
Here it comes in the night,
You say it is not right.
But someone has got the blight,
Blue unseeing eyes that turn white,
Let enter nor shine no light.
Smiling, stuck in oblivion in fright.
Will it all end in demise,
Or will you finally escape tonight,
You and your child?
Stranded on an island
Stranded on an island
-all alone I was,
Lonely I seemed
-brief would’ve been
Hidden by the mist,
-no one I saw.
Mist so thick
-suffocated I was,
Looking at the skies
-nothing but a blur,
And by the night never-ending
-blinded I was,
When I looked at the sea,
I wished to escape,
For comfort from the rain,
I thought once and again,
When every step would hurt,
When every breath would kill,
Tell me you, who are free,
Would you not make the same mistake I did?
Would you not just jump and swim away?
Follow-up
And when I was too far away,
The fog had lifted,
And the shadows no longer existed,
Had I only, little longer waited,
I’d have seen the weeping willows cry,
A cry full of pain and sorrow,
Because on the island I no longer exist.
Trichotillomania
I took them away one by one
It started with one and ended with none
They warned me to stop
But I listened not
I hid that which wasn’t there with pitch black
Hoping I won’t get their stare
When I looked at the mirror
I would see, not those that were missing
but those still standing
They said that my chances would
one day, run out
they will never come back
I tried over and over
Giving it my all
But I kept on going
And when I’d remove my mask
I would see, how much worse
I had become.
Children of Agent Orange and other poems © Asma Zulfiqar
Chris Murray 