We keep reaching up
Young fingertips touch it
For a moment
Never able to grasp it
Before it slips away

We keep reaching up
Flailing in futility
Tired fingertips yearn
Wishing to reach higher
Before it slips away

We keep reaching up
But look down
Feet planted firmly in the ground
Cold fingertips stagnate
Before it slips away

We want to reach up
As it slips away

the unknown roars
with a deafening silence
that obliterates the mundane
raising fears from deep within
that we didn't know we had

so we attempt
to pace the time-worn path
one step at a time
one more time

there is nowhere to hide

the dry straw-brown chains
have started to corrode

the lush green oxidation
of life-bearing spring
is slowly overcoming
winter's ******* again

the frozen fetters will fail

Mother said,
go to Ryelands park,
the fairground's on
here's two bob
and don't you stay 'til
after dark
I want you home
it's school tomorrow.

Those yesterdays lay heavy on me.

it was all a fairground then,
even schooldays had their share of fun
but to be honest
I preferred the riverbanks
where I think I learned much more.

I got home late
it didn't seem like it
and though I won a coconut
my dad played merry hell with me
which was not as tuneful as the
waltzer.

I fell in love with a dream,
and then I woke up.
It felt like a gut punch.
I wanted so badly for
the dream to be real,
but it wasn't.

The antonym for
dream is
reality.
And the reality
was
that she could
never love me
like I loved her.

Nowhere is the new in place,
the last time I was nowhere
nobody wanted to go there
and now everybody is where
I used to be,

Where's nowhere, you ask

nowhere's anywhere is my reply.

It's a bit like lonely but more cheerful
because it's homely and that's where
the heart is.

Dinner's cooking,
but I'm only smelling
not looking
because
I want it to be a
surprise,

she eyes me suspiciously
I'm used to that too.

I must admit:
I am unwilling to give
even a hint of consideration
to the thought of being anything,
anyone other than that brilliant,
briefly lit comet,
hurtling toward home.

It matters not
where I land,
or who takes pictures from the ground.

This is only a trip.
This is just a ride.
So fleeting, so fiery,
that you wouldn't want to pause to wonder
what you look like up there,
or else you might miss
the very things that make
your fires unforgettable
and your blast burn true.