Whisper My Name


Whispering. Joylessly whispering.

Sitting in a plain soft chair

In the plain dark gloom in a plain white room.

Endlessly recycling words and phrases as empty as the life 

That brought me through the years and seasons

leaving me scrabbling for answers

On a plain soft chair.


Talking. Ceaseless talking.

Why, how, where,when.

Thoughts. And feelings, too.

Words, babbling off the edge of time

In search of something I can’t quite name.

The conflicts, contrasts, constraints, demands, assaults

On my senses, ideals, stability, reality until

The mind clouds over with the detail of it all

Loses sight of the landscape of my place, of my years

Making good its escape like a set of lost keys

Down the crack between the cushions

Of a plain soft chair.


Reality bursts on the senses as

The ice cold truth of birth shocks the brain

A flood pushing through a broken dam

Sweeping away the scattered detritus, 

Tottering complex edifice, defenses of logic, rules, patterns

Walls of lives and relationships, collapse

In a roaring crush of dust and sadness.

Consoled only by the strange embrace

Of a plain soft chair.


Imagining. Detached wondering

At the re-forming dust, rising like Phoenix, 

Looking like self, feeling like nothing, 

Turning into the light, formless swirling colours

A nameless path to a hidden dreamscape.

Slowly the mind releases its death grip on falsehoods, 

Leaving behind old ties and the comforts 

Of a plain soft chair.


And far away a singer sighs––

Whisper my name as you run through my life.

 © Philip Knight 2018