Cassandra’s Poems


Kronos Eclipsed


My father used to tell me stories

About the atrocious gods

Who devoured their own children.

I always used to believe

The stories foretold my own destiny.


I don’t believe in gods anymore,

Nor in the impossible tracks of destiny.

I don’t even believe in my father.

I believe in walks beside calm rivers

Where no regret ever blooms.




Inventing Happiness


Happiness belongs to those

Who have never heard the word.


I love and hate happiness too deeply

To ever unlearn the word.


I can never look at the stars

Without asking their meaning.


I can never drink port

Without asking where it came from.


The palpable horror of knowing happiness

Always returns to haunt me.


Happiness was invented by those

Who could never feel it.




Forgetting, Softly


Softly, softly, I hear a breeze

Caressing the river’s tide

And I forget I need love,

Forget I need the great human adventure.

I hope this forgetting outlives

The breeze caressing the river’s tide!





I never share my poetry online.

A tree in the Alto doesn’t share its season

With a tree in Patagonia.

I write so I indulge in non-existing,

A death in verse, a divine fossilisaiton.

I never share myself online

Because to be seen and commented on

Is to pretend you are someone

That feels the need to be going somewhere.

I would rather be within my poems

That are as natural as a tree in the Alto,

Not even knowing the names of the seasons,

Completely stripped of my outer self.






“Why do you live

Like such a hermit?”

An acquaintance asks me

On my phone.


I cannot see her face,

It is as if she is

A radio announcer

Narrating fake news.


I feel compelled to reply:

“Would you call a

Drinker and a hedonist

Like me a hermit?”


“You actually do that?

How am I to know?

You never post anything!”

Is my life not real to her?


A newfound love for

This Digital Age erupts

In my Epicurean soul:

To not exist I need only be



“I am no hermit for I

Indulge in the bowels of living.

But I want my living to be

Like a shooting star

That leaves no permanent trail

Across the wounded night.

If I show people

What I want them to see

I will be judged,

And judgement is the soil

From which the tyranny of meaning



“I never you knew you hated

Social media this much!”


“I don’t hate it, I love it.

Without the light it casts on the world

I would never have my shadows

Where I exist without purpose.”

One Comment Add yours

  1. Jack Eason says:

    Reblogged this on Have We Had Help? and commented:
    Poetry from our man in Malta – Justin Feneche…


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