INVISIBLE

'The Hue of Love'  by  Trish

This soul, would wish the day never to end,
the night never to come, that all people
may never take their last breath, if it were possible,
to wish such things.

This soul that wanders the city streets,
watches the council cleaners, collect,
scattered paper from shuttered shop fronts,
sees the wide tooth brush broom sweep all before it.
Sees the great council truck's moustache brush,
twirl and rock, on its spindle, then  snatch dry and wet leaves from the gutter,
to swallow them in one long gush and gulp.
Yes, this soul that often sees so much, that is so small and lovely, confusing and sad, would wish so much if possible.

The council sweeper sees a child's dummy, in the gutter, among the paper bags
and crushed cans; he picks it up, stares at it for some time,
rolls the well sucked rubber thing carefully from side to side, on his palm.
He throws it down and with his large tooth brush broom far in front of him,
its stout handle clasped firm in both hands, he sweeps on.

This soul that wanders, often  sees an ageless woman, drag herself,
through the cold city streets. She pushes a trolley, laden with old newspaper,
sometimes there are shouts of, 'that trolley is stolen property!'; she doesn't care;
but the one who shouts does, cares more than they ever did for for the weary
worn out spirit that shuffles and pushes through the  morning mist.
Her name is Nessy, I've heard the workers cheerfully, call out to her in rhythm with the
sweep of their brooms,' Good morning newspaper Nessy,
you'd better hurry, if you want to beat us to those scattered news papers.
She just pushes on.

But, let me return to my lostness, for it is that, which creates it all.
The long tormented nights, the wretchedness of  my soul.
Creates the fiery places I  travel through, while some can dream sweetly,
 warm, satisfied and safe in their beds.

I wonder if you think, my thoughts are mad? sick, or sane?
For maybe, you are the one who sees beyond the first flash, that  lights, then colors all words?
Perhaps you are the one to catch them and hold them fast in an open heart..
Sees into the storm of letters, that fly like arrows into the air? Have I a word to help myself?
A word that puts an end to this relentless soul journey?  A word that puts and end to the  torment of those cursed with such a plight. No, sadly I have not. It is is an unbearable state, it consumes, devours and negates. The only way out, is forward

Perhaps I can approach it from another angle, before I finish. 'When the streets team with busy people,
when the footpaths  glisten and gleam from soft rain, and then the sun sets each person apart in their own glory, all I ask is, 'hear me when I approach, see me when I pass you by, and if by chance I should stand
beside you, truly see me standing there. Perhaps then, my endless watch, will be over,
Perhaps then, my restless hungry soul, will be fulfilled?.

When I say, 'all I ask is this', I know full well, I ask a lot.
I also ask a lot as I search for the words that rest at the center of me.
Words of wonder and horror? words that may sicken and haunt?
Maybe. But long ago, I said, whatever is there, let it come, for there may also be,hidden beneath the dreariness of my thoughts, the boredom of my state, rich  words and images, that can lift a soul  up to the heavens of hope, lift a man, woman and child into another world, their own world. It is this I wait  for.
And so it is, I say, for now, all I ask is this, '.hear me as I whisper my story in the shuffle and push of my stolen trolley, in the rustle and flutter of my old newspapers. And then, see me come to life before your eyes'.

Tushie  (1991)