by John Stocks
In the ‘World’s End’: finding it aptly named,
I sit alone, conjuring a personal space
Between the bar and muted walls.
Two women sit and will contrive
A disassociation of their lives,
Each face a slowly ticking clock.
I search in vain for a spiritual quest.
A blond-haired girl sighs, tugging at her dress
And I know she will never speak.
My thoughts steal away to vague abstraction
And face the enduring curse of self-reflection,
A conspiracy of silence.
Here a dead-eyed man who dreams of nothing
How could we end it all? Where would we begin?
And the blind are leading the blind.
In the World’s End, strangers I will never meet
Or recognise, should I pass them in the street,
Are withering before my eyes
In a neutral zone of wasted lives.
Silence remains, under any disguise.
Copyright © 2008 by John Stocks