Abigail Deacon

The Daily Art Source


Faded photo eyes
Stare at me unsmiling
Full of memories
From a life
Alien and long ago.

Who did she love?
What secret passion 
filled her chest
With panting joy
When daybreak
When moon rise
When the reaper came?

Who did she leave
Bereaved and desolate?
Her memory filling 
Lonely moments.
Was there any body
To miss her?

Where is she now?
Spinning with electrons
Hiding in atoms
Vibrating in energy strings
Living in some mysterious dimension
​Of quantum minutsha?

The timeline ended.....................................................

Faded photo eyes
Stare at me unsmiling
From a life....
Much like my own.



                                                               Photo from Public Domain



The movements of my life

Play like a dirge-

Slow and even

Down to the grave

They slide their tapes

Into my cranial VCR

To watch memory

Slip by

Like a movie

Like an arrow

Bending as it flies

Toward the ground

To bury in the earth

The end.

I feel space

All around

Its' atoms and particles

Intermingling with my



Speeding by faster and faster

Until the watch inside quits

And then

And when

I turn to the light

Into lite

The ground left behind

To be wind

Or not to be a worm hole

Beginning where I end

And on 

And in

A circle

To come around

To be the atom

In something breathing

Once again.

The movements of my life

Play like a sonata

Rhythmic and in love

Down to the grave....


My words slam on a wall that doesn't hear

Curses and bitterness and tears

Cries of pain

To deities unseen, unknown.

I think they are there

Inside my logic invincible

I say I am right

But, uncertainty in reasoning,

The goddesses don't show their face

The gods don't say a word.

The days when they visited us

Had babies with us

Loved us


Are we alone on this hunk of rock?

Spinning forever round and round

Wobbling on its' axis

Holding us to ground by air pressure


Our own spiritless souls

That worship no more

And place faith in a pack of cards.

Dial a psychic on the phone.

Where do we go

When it's over?

The words said over folded hands-

The sweat on my neck-

The tears on my lashes-

The breath from my life-

Poured into that vast cauldron

Of many prayers

To a deity that doesn't reply.

Odd books tell me to have faith-

The deity will hear.


Why listen to me?

A frail sick thing on bended knees

Counting the gray hairs of age.

The lines of dying skin.

Less than a minus

to the enth on that unending clock?

I believe-

What I have to say

Matters to the creator

of all the peoples

of the earth

of solar systems

of galaxies

of universes 

of all the unknowable unknown out   -    there.

Me, this small speck

On a small speck

Within a small speck

Among billions of small specks

Whirling through this thing called universe.

It's a mystery

My belief

In deity.


The ghost in the hall

Packed up and left today.

Bored with a flat being-

A ghost within this matrix of watery meat.

Manic depression without 


I look out from these eyes

And see and see and see............

Automatic responses in my atoms

Keepers of my heart beat.

Emotions have become aliens.

I am

Organic machine.

Hope, the great liar, tells me to hang in there.

It will all be better soon.

Don't give up.

Think of your




Mother Mary.

I can only relate to unformed goddesses,

Faceless, un-whole, embryonic beings,

Unfinished tasks of a ghost being

Who set everything on auto-pilot,

And left me standing

In an empty hall. 


The colours of my palette are

Blue and grey

The hearth is much like the heath

Blue evening shadows fill both

A glow of red fire in the stove

A puff of grey steam from a silver blue kettle.

I am never warm - blue colours my thought

Cold and scientific and sterile

Depressed and antagonistic

Ready for the door to open

And greet the shadows 

Of an unknown future  

After the thoughts cease.

Grey, the colour of age, decorates my exterior.

Bent and tired and diseased.

Tough and warrioresque

Ready for the door to open

And greet the medics

Of an unknown hospital

After the bones and blood go stale.

Why go through it all, this life?

I can't imagine there is no purpose

To anything, anywhere, any time.

Why go through it all if there is no plan

That some creating force set in motion

At the beginning of the beginning?

Why do I think and feel and imagine

If life is only for survival and passing on of genes?

Why can beauty spear my blue soul?

Why can a smile crack my grey facade?

A Sunday sermon heard in childhood

Says Jesus loves me, knows me, can hear me

​When I plea for myself and those I love.

He opens his third eye in his Shiva form

And sees this small expiring being

Sitting in a small cottage on a small farm

Amoung the grey mist of a blue twilight.

What does he think when he hears my thoughts?

Does he see me as a structure of atoms, particles, energy?

Does he see me as a ghost, a spirit, a thought?

Does he regard me at all draped in my blue and grey?

My blue brain reaches an impasse.

​There is no answer to the conundrum.

There is nothing tangible to touch.

My spirit touches the unknown and hopes it is friendly.

My thought's calculus totals out to infinity and infinity.

I study the rainy blue mist swirling the deepening twilight

From within my warm grey little room.

The clock ticks a constant reminder of time passing

And says remember the colours orange and green and 

The dancing child on Sunday afternoon?

The grey facade cracks and the blue turns to sky and

Jesus loves me once again.