It’s funny that time evolves all wounds,
We’re thought to heal as a species but we grow carcinogenic,
we grow old and weary of struggle.
We grow tired.
It was wondrous the ever lasting years of yellow dawn,
a love effervescent tickling smiles from a forlorn furrowed brow -a perma-scowl.
and as things fall apart,
I recall it was from the start, we knew of the pre-existing doom
of us two,
we used delusions, positive illusions to negate a real reality.
are all struggles growth? as my hearth flickers hot and cold,
if I am to endure, what besets me? I don’t know if to bestow upon myself
that which draws a weary yawn
as dusk creeps over
We’re an infinity of caramel limbs and cream cotton sheets.
Curtains curtailing hail and sleet
the world knocking at the window of our whispered softness.
The fan heaters on, you said you were cold naked.
Perhaps we’ll have pancakes for brunch,
Times moved on since you last entered my arms.
When you return I’ll make you chai tea, the one
your hands taught mine.
It’s been while since we’ve spoke,
I wonder… because if stigmatised truth or dearth of substance.
I feel it’s the subject, it turned an obscure ombre.
A minds regard of the quiet clandestine workings of a wandering eye.
And a relative conscious.
I read love poems of devotions and pure affection. They too like the gloss movies, a reality away from the compromises and warmth of daily love.
In fiction it vanquishes all, but I see it beaten by jealousy, pettiness and self pity.
A sacred pantomime we all dance to, I’ve found mine but still I wonder.
really that’s the only type of honesty there is.
A compliment bubbling through the lips of admiration.
un-tinged by the cynicism of self benefit.
Do I say thanks enough?
To those who do what I’ve come to expect.
To those who meet my assumptions, and fulfill my needs.
I wave a soon forgotten thanks
to those paused at the zebra crossing
allowing me to just catch the tram I would have just been late for.
My friends and family, bastions of support and love,
I see you,
even if my words do not reach your ears.
Perhaps I do not give enough meaningful thanks,
as I applaud my own hard work’s achievements.
But I’d be floored without your outstretched arms, your words
repairing my ego raising a coy smile.
Perhaps I shy away,
to give thanks is to admit a weakness, a vulnerability
healed by another’s words and actions,
a naked appreciation masked in a mini shame.
And so I’d like to thank you Ashley,
for all you’ve done
doing nothing special at all.
Isn’t that all of it,
to reach up to the sun
with fists filled with golden sand,
the hot grains fleeing through the cracked clasp,
and for the sun’s shine to be
silvered by the passing
moods of the earth.
The crook of her mother’s brow
shapes her earth toned world view,
reducing glitter to dust.
Grains of sun flee her eyes,
rhythmically lapping at her cut glass cheeks.
Each breath, drawing in a fearfully rose future;
fragile desires dashed
within her insecure moods.
Her palms gasp – parched.
Feet unmoved from where she stood
when she first said hello.
It lies in the false titles
given to those that bear the fruit.
To gain a recognition for deeds done,
the end goal not always in sight.
See… the warmth is blue,
a sombre heat without light
A form of cold pragmatism,
through exchanges of pregnant love.
You see directions are issued,
But to what end should that suffice?
We don’t all crave a destination, but instead
to be hooked – within two arms.