Same thing today,
as leaves grow in May,
In light I
reflect
pain,
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Frownies
Writing
Your Name ~ Dream
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
the dawn.
still I love you.
I know at times I take on your faults. I believe. I change. I see you don’t.
I sip your poison. It doesn’t kill me, not yet.
Dream
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.
Drugs
That’s the thing about drugs,
They seep to your core
a reflection of failure – the image obscure in smoke.
I enjoy the plastered amusement. The transient pleasure exhaled in a silent destructive whisper.
It’s all the same, it just fizzed with a velvet stroke.
My lungs swell exhaling a putrid air.
Tonglen, perhaps, a reversal of states.
I’ve years yet to die.
But I wonder if these years between freedom and cold expulsion draw nearer.
I’m the same as the year before
My inspiration stands unperturbed by the hanging tranquil haze.
Can this be what it’s become?
I know it’s not.
Old eyes
It’s never easy meeting a fallen kindred spirit, their face reflecting your soul
For those who look
You can see the mirrored minutae of you
Often I feel they’re unseen, we all stuck looking for the reflection of our Facebook self.
A glossed fiction unfound in others unfounded in reality.
Still I see myself in the fleeting gloss of your lonely eye.
It like the an old friend who once looked upon me.
LVE
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.
