Moving Among Mixed Metaphors


Moving Among Mixed Metaphors


He sauntered in like

An unmade bed,

All bent and

Bedraggled about the shoulders and

Neck leaned over.

His days

All yellowed and dog-eared

Like a long loved –

Or unloved –



And rent

In its spine

From the strain

Of bearing the pain.

His musing,

Among the mixed metaphors,

A metaphor itself,

Of days dotted

With random unconnected


The remaining pages,


with the longing

to be



Simon C.J. Falk 25 October 2017.


#WATWB October coming soon. Stay tuned.



The Great Alone

The well had run dry for some days.  But, this morning, this free-verse came to visit me.  We all know people like this. Sometimes it is ourselves.  A celebration of the bittersweet taste of being unique.


The Great Alone


Might we reach them,

Those in

The great alone?

Off in the fog,

Weighed down,

By their darkness,

Dampened in spirit,

Hunched and huddled

Into the day?

What is it

That cuts them off,

Casts them into the mire,

And makes them not able

To be reached?

Why they may not

Have their hand out,


For another’s hand,

To reach and grasp

And draw them in.

They feel so alone,

Cut off

From others,

Yet unable

To speak their pain.

They seek another,

But who can truly share

The depths

They hold within?

How much of this alone,

This measure on the scales,

Is unable to be offered,

Shared with another?

How much

Is that a unique alone,

That ‘just me’,

That no one else

Can truly comprehend,

Because they are

Someone else?

How do we hold them,

Their damp, dark spirits,

In the fog,

When they realise

That we each

have an alone

that is unique to ourself,

and no other human

can truly dwell

with us

in that beautiful

yet alone




Simon C.J. Falk 26 April 2014


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