A spectre is haunting the streets of Melbourne. 

Seeking his way on the edges of the chessboard,

He travels across opposing dimensions,

Then stops to ponder, in silence.

Fearful, forceful, confused

He crosses people without engagement.

A pawn lost on the margins

Of a disenchanting game.


Lost. Far from home,

But at last on his own.

Unsettled by the promises of courage,

Slowly drowning in delusions.

Lost. In loneliness.

If the ghost reopens his eyes

Will he find shelter

In the dreams of the mind?



The everyday is emptying out

Of driving passions.

Meanwhile he is not.

Slave not to indolence

But to ambition,

Slave to the wrong plot,

To a well contrived plan

He dared to shake once,

He is still a prey of.


A seeker

In the academic cage,

Will he stand back

From his feelings again?

Or give up the quest

To remain sane?

Will the thin red bicycle

Take him past the crossroad

Of being true and

Playing the game?


Living in a void,

Distant from past and

Absent from present,

The stubborn fighter

Gives himself a chance

To crush old presumptions

Into the ice-cold walls

Of the new world


But knowledge

Is like a whirlpool

Swallowing his tired body

In exchange for the power of ideas.


Now it is time to rest.

Back to his cave

The spectre lies down

Trapped in-between

The urge of starting all over again

And the unbearable prospects of nothingness.