Wiebo Grobler - Author

Darlin’ Streets

 

My darlin’ London streets, where cold rain and creeping mist meets - entwining like lovers - perspiring on the cobbled lanes. Paupers and whores greet me as friend, from Whitechapel down to the west end.

Around me water flows, the trickle and drip is my home. The sound calms the demons, who churn inside. Some days I’m, Jekyll some days I’m, Hyde.

All I do is help their plight; they come to me – these ladies of the night. Unwanted burdens from unwanted seed, my healing hands can’t help but make them bleed. We’ve been here before, on a different night, with a similar lady of delight. You aren’t the first, you won't be my last.

Crowds whisper my name in fear, the coppers think they are drawing near. Black lace choker around your neck, the mark of your trade, not of respect.

My fingers the sticks, your pulse the drum. Warm and ragged panting, exhales

with a thrum. The scent of juniper rides your last breath.

Gin heals all wounds, so does death.

You beautiful, ugly pariahs of the dark, circling like sharks; for rich men’s hearts.

Selling yourselves to the glitter of gold. Hungering for something that can’t be sold.

Your blood is the oil that lights my soul, surely the next one, will make me whole.

 

 

 

THE LAST CALL

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This is the last rise to the bugle call.

This is the last time shrugging on tunic and chain, stiff and cold.

This is the last day men will fall.

 

This is the last battle squall.

This is the last charge into the fold.

This is the last rise to the bugle call.

 

This is the last day man and beast gives their all.

This is the last day for the brave and bold.

This is the last day men will fall.

 

This is the last time banners will be standing tall.

This is the last glorious sunrise to behold.

This is the last rise to the bugle call.

 

This is the last shout in gall!

This is the last prayer, to gods of old.

This is the last day men will fall.

 

This is the last check of sword and maul.

This is the last payment of blood for gold.

This is the last rise to the bugle call.

This is the last day men will fall.

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TODAY

 

Today there’s a discord of disenchanted voices, clamouring and cawing inside my head. Yesterday they sold me a cacophony of lies offered from candied tongues and sugared palms. 

Today they drown out my voice as I shout for my sanity to stay, I’m forced to watch as it slowly walks away. Its turned its back on me just like the rest of the world.

Things which made sense yesterday, is today a confusing swirl. I’m surrounded by people but none with a friendly face.

Today everyone rushes around with no time for a smile. In this technological race, shouldn’t we have more time for each other - slow our pace?

Their thoughts may be kind; if only I could read their minds.

All I see is emptiness behind furtive eyes, or is it fear? Is it because they can hear the same voices I hear?

My opaque reflection stares back at me. I don’t recognize myself in this state of mind. Spiderweb cracks appear on each surface I draw near. The feelings hidden behind my own eyes are unclear.   

If I can’t look at myself, then how can anyone else? Once this nightmare ends, my dreams can begin. Once I stop living in my past, my future can start.

Shrill and sharp my reality shatters, like a bauble made from precious glass.

Today I just need someone to tell me; that that this too shall pass.

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