A finger traces my jaw,
A whisper nudges my ear,
A rustling, a word, a hint,
I know.

A hand on my arm,
A breath trickles down my neck,
Closer he crawls, a touch,
I know.


A kiss on my cheek,
As I close my eyes and imagine,
Myself away, free, but
I know.

He will get what he wants,
Again.

The simple pleasure,
Of feeling my hair,
Move around in the wind,
Which carries on its breath,
The sweet sound of my name.

To know that as stranger's eyes,
Glance at me,
They see the same person,
As I see in my head,
Without a second look.

To feel the freedom in my legs,
The spring in my step,
Blossom under my feet,
Too early, perhaps, but the winter has been mild,
And my heart did not freeze.

Why are my eyes widest in the dark?
When there's less to see,
No light to see by,
I strain to see the details.

As the shadows creep across and pull the curtains closed,
I find subtly lighter shades of night,
Paint colours far more vivid,
Than the tones of daytime.

The harder it is to see, the more truth the dark reveals,
The tighter fatigue's fingers wrap round my waist,
The more I want her embrace,
And soon I'm smothered in purest black,
Where I feel at home,
At peace,
Until the crack of dawn sends me to sleep.

The smoothest screams carve faces in these cliffs,
And wrinkles as they age,
Become cracks and gaping holes,
That before long collapse in on themselves,
Until those eyes of rock and dirt,
Cry from hollow shells.

A trunk of limestone strong and high, splits to stretching branches,  
   Those stones were set, so long ago but still will hold such weight.    
      Could they have known when those ancient hands,
Set this pillar firm and new?
That after centuries,
Still they'd stand,
Still strong and
Straight and true.
And even now,
Though old and
Worn, those gazes
Question: How?
Such wonder fills
Every eye which
Looks upon the
Polished bark,
Smoothed by
Mortal hands not
Nature's breath
That will never
Know such pain
As death or the
Feet or nest of
A crow or lark.
And who can
Say how many
Years, decades,
Centuries from
Now the last
Stone will decay?
When will that            
          Final rock
crumble              
               back to dust?
When it does,
will anyone              
know what           beauty
it once was?
And will those
                         hands that
placed the          
                                    first stone
finally                                
sleep and rest?

Perhaps I could have told you,
In a moment when nothing mattered more,
Than your fingers in my hand,
Or your head on my shoulder.

Perhaps in that mix of dark and laughter.
And shouting to be heard,
I could have let myself,
Say the words in my head.

Perhaps when blinded from consequence,
When fear of failure did not cross my mind,
I could have been honest,
And whispered a kiss on your lips.

There are few eyes,
Which catch mine as yours,
Call my gaze.

There are few hands,
Which lift me as yours,
From the shade.

There are few smiles,
Which warm me as yours,
Lights a blaze.

There is no heart,
I could love but yours,
Keeps me alive.

This stolen-or-found pencil writes
Far more smoothly than any keyboard
Or any pen of my own
So sterile
With no past
No stories to tell but
This...
This lead is filled
With memories
With sights and sounds
Of journeys
Of places I've never seen
Inspiration beyond any truth
From imagination moments