To love so viscerally and passionately
As mortals do
It is life’s greatest gift
And harshest punishment.

Dear Doubt,

It's understandable that you have risen.  You are at a stage in your journey that is untrodden by you.  This is a path you have not walked, yet.  The uncertainty that you can do it, is normal dear one.  You see where you need to be but the path seems too long.  See the first step, then the next, learn from each move.  Move forward, build the strength you need to keep moving.  Rest when you need to and get up again.  This is normal dear one.  Do not fear, this is growth.

Trust me, don't be afraid of being left on the shelf
For, if born of nothing but the needy love of self
love itself can swiftly become such a selfish thing
when loneliness and passion together take wing

For thus it is that Love is a complicated *******
for it often seeks out that uncomplicated yearning
and then turns it into a thing of so little substance
signifying nothing, and thoughtless, never learning

it assumes many forms, from starlings whirling swarms
to the sweet bluebirds that soft songs so sweetly sing
and white swans that seem the epitome of love so true
all these avian jesters can make a twitching fool of you

Take advice, do not a perch provide when this creature
seeks out a lonely heart in which to settle, roost and hide
for it will so swiftly spread out its darkly feathered wings
and fill your unsuspecting heart with all manner of things

Its fervid fetid feathers of passion will choke your soul
Its probing beak of jealousy will swiftly break your heart
this winged thing called love is a complicated *******
for, born of passions carrion, it will slowly tear you apart

here is the end of an era
a season of desperate drought
we carry these bags, the luggage we have
while in these frail cubes we are bound to stay sat

eating plastic for food, wearing pixels for eyes
the warmth that we know is of blazing pink skies
our present lives offer no living
the books i so love start to tear at the seams,

all reality becomes less sure than a dream
nothing is as it should seem to be
our clock has sped up as the men aim their guns
and the women are told to stay silent and sweet

losing ourselves, we consent to this mess
horizons of East burn to bleed and hold "peace",
dark roses of truth colour this cursed country
a lifetime of growth swears to halt at my feet

2020: year of grief, no relief
this bleak closing scene promises to haunt me

I watch with eyes long used
to seeing postures upright,
poised, or bowed
and brows confused
hands betraying age in speckled skin
cosmetics that hide the
insecurities within
I watch them
as they sit, stand, walk or pause
and see sometimes
what they would wish me not to see
the anger lodged within that
unleashes pink nailed claws
I hear from lips
the sharp tongues
brittle, hoarse
and watch and wonder at
these things I hear and see
and wonder what the watched ones
hear and see
in me?

In the last quarter of our span
we do not walk alone
for there are other footsteps echoing
the steps of both woman and man
lighter are those steps and surer
as they tread beside our own
as we grow less sure recalling
hours, days, months, years
and decades that have flown
there is a faltering now and again
‘though only to us known
for those steps echo other times
when sorrows like weeds have grown
and,  just as frequently, there is a skip
- a lift of the latch of the years -
when familiar voices echo
and laughter accompanies tears
but eventually, there is a stillness
and we know then that we walk alone
realising that we are old now
and the child that was within us has flown