Sometimes I invite sin over to my house
I open the door and there it is
I invite it in with a welcoming smile offering tea
But sin, is a tricky friend
It leaves things at my house every time it comes over
All that does is give it a reason to come back
Every single time it comes back and knocks on my door
I see the hate and lonesome in its eyes
Yet still I seem invite it in

when a boy shows you his hands
bare except for the dust
he’s begging you to look past
take them in yours.
squeeze them once.
twice.
say without speaking
that you understand that the valleys
in his palms were meant to cradle
shooting star wishes
that he’s allowed to still hope for.
when a boy shows you his eyes
of milk and crimson and melanin
a bloodshot vein for every night he can’t sleep
let him shut his eyelids.
say without speaking
that you understand that the black hole pinpricks
of his irises hold more than the universe
should allow.
when a boy shows you his soul
shivering but still working toward friction
iced over but still working toward melting
let him come to rest next to yours.
say without speaking
that you understand that he is lonely
and that his silence speaks volumes
and that you kept his treasure close
because you love him.
when a boy shows you his hands
show him your hands.
when a boy shows you his eyes
show him your eyes.
when a boy shows you his soul
show him that
this is a comfortable place to rest it.
when a boy shows you the hardness that shaped him
show him the softness
that you have in store.

Young girls laugh
and cut the stems with fingernails
or small blunt scissors and set them in a vase
they gleam
rough cut flowers
husks by next month
after the water has dried
their stems touching crystal.

Weighty as feathers
desiccated while in bloom
these fossils
touched the moon
only a shadow
of their former selves
brides of the clouds
like statice, lavender, eucalyptus,
pearly everlasting
is nothing but lashes
claws of petal
they don’t care if they are hollow
if their throats are silent
wear iron smiles
ghost bloom
the very bitterness in them
is just a bough of hours
suitably decorating
the table.

Edges of shadows
In the corners of eyes
Too fast to see
It might be me

Is it true
What you see?
Is it real?
Is it really me?

You do not hear my voice
Or know the colour of my eyes
You would not know me in the street
Or recognise my accent
Should we meet

And yet
You have seen my soul
In the words I write
And even the spaces between them

Those who care to look
Can know my story
My frailties
My vulnerabilities
My reality

This may be my curse
And my gift to you
Whatever it may be
You know that it is true

                                   By Phil Roberts

All of the shining mad ones
With their heresies of reality
And other visions and other voices
Are not diminished
By the multitude of choices
That is their truth
Upon each waking day

They are woken by the howl
From beyond the first ear
And into the deeper mind
Where there is other language
And blinding colours of emotion
For madness has the purity of pain
That martyrs can only long for

                                           By Phil Roberts