Illusion Swims Over an Empty Pool

Feet swing above a blue tiled wall of a piscine / sans l’eau
as if the world has cried up all the water on the planet.

I rest my head on your shoulder and you lean in /to my support
as if we were both armbands to each other.

Somewhere behind a day I made into a memory / in my mind
you fake swim in that pool of dried tile / cracked sunshine

and our laughter reverberates between the stain at the bottom
and the gulls flying overhead / in circling sways

in case we chose to be bait for their beak.

Behind us / a taxi rides away / and we are left to decipher
how life drowned in that place / sans rêve.

Sometimes we sleep to dream / other times we slip our feet
into the emptiness / to dream…

THE MIRRORS WE SPOKE TO

Those years lost in our own skull
buying presents to suit ourselves.
Hearing the wind rattle a council letterbox
though we never felt our fringe move.

We walked together though with a different
map. I wore glasses behind my eyes
clamped my watch to my ankle
so I never felt time leave my life.

We said we knew what to say
though neither of us heard the wind
at the letterbox, or see the leaves
being brushed away for another year.

The mirrors in our homes grew bigger
every month until the house showed us
who we were. But today I must leave,
find sunlight that shows me who I’m not.

THE STREETS WE LIVE IN

When we were kids the streets
became veins in our bodies.
We felt each day rush through,
flick on the sunlight behind our eyes.

The ball rattled fence panels

To be Written Upon Waking

You wake to the winter dark
Closing in immediately
Targeting the heart

The slow, stabbing pain
Informs
It is one of those days

Where the mask will
be required
Just to make it through

Pain squeezes
Your stomach
Pronouncing unworthiness

Reading doesn’t soothe
Eyes spinning at the words
Leeching away all meaning

Feeling fraudulent
Already spent
Before the day’s even begun

Writing this down
As a way not to drown
And destroy the days of four.

The Daily Battle

I have no enemies
Except myself
There are no lofty expectations
But my own

Still, the thoughts linger
A constant buzzing drone

Lacking any perspective
Imposter in my own home
Masquerader in my comfort zone

A detriment to my health
This warring with myself

And yet,
Each poem is a balm
A therapy session to
Inflict no harm.

Scott Cumming never considered himself to be a…