THE FIREPLACE

Eyes cast into the fire

of an air-conditioned sitting room;

odourless heat melts tears dry

from an indoor sun or moon.

Life lives in this sphere

of moving blank stillness;

clocks beat time records to death,

all that passes through endlessness.

Minds drift into a tired sleep,

that which prohibits dreaming,

suddenly waking into old age;

fear slumber, it's time stealing.

Genius believes in nothing,

null and void, invisible eternity;

yet intellect comes from God,

the one last hope of immortality.

Love falls short of fairytales;

this sofa is reserved for TV hypnosis,

pillows stained with sperm, foods,

maps of history showing victories.

Mosquito hums Rhapsody in Blue,

lampshade moves with night,

the end is nearer again,

dust settles in beaming light. 

Raymond Fenech

 If you've any comments on his poem, Raymond Fenech would be pleased to hear from you.