I feel like those old abandoned factories-

My heart, a shattered window
My legs, crumbling bricks
My thoughts, muddled graffiti
My whole body, rusted and broken down

But I still stand.
Like that dilapidated factory,
through suffering, it also stands
even in its ruined state.

But then, suddenly,
shards of light
cast a spectral play
through fractured panes,
an almost ethereal experience
it is so rare.

Still, hope glimmers,
and after a while,
wildflowers bloom,
stretching across the span,
reclaiming the ruins,
growing over the brokenness,
not in spite of it
but because of it.

I used to wake up and just watch you breathe,
I'd see your face and smile; we were in love.
It hurt me in a way that I would seethe
Every time I saw you and I've become
A monster who covers all of their scars,
A beast who twists your words so that they hurt,
A freak who thinks we're written in the stars,
When you say I'm beautiful, I avert

Because I'm scared of what I do not know,
Don't know if I can be happy at all,
But maybe life will live and let me grow,
But I'm scared that I'll only ever fall.
So when you leave I'll rip myself to shreds,
But things beyond repair may yet still mend.

In another universe.
Things would be so new.

There wouldn't be a me.
Without having a you.

We'd have the things we crave.
Our stomachs would be full.

There would be so much laughter.
There would be so much chatter.

Your smile would've never dimmed.
Your eyes would've never darkned.

We'd be a family.

There would be a fully set table.
There would be a fully set house.

Nothing would ever be fixed.
As nothing would be broken.

You would have stayed you.
I would have stayed me.

Now we are worlds apart.
Now we are left alone.

All I have are memories.
Even in time they fade.

There is no alternate universe.
And it's killing me everyday.

We will always be sisters.
We will never be the same.

My heart will always ache.

The changing seasons are not more changefull
Then my mistresse; neither more vengefull
Is the wooing autumn wind that seduceth
A singing mood afore it blasteth
With bitter colde, angry and disdainfull.
Her scorne is lyke a scorpion sting painfull
In my sad heart wich bleedeth for banefull
Her who presently nowe observeth
          The changing seasons.
Her cruell scorne capricious entiseth
My heart to dispaire; itt dispaireth
Dailye and dieth from disese most carefull.
Her scorne doth make my harte most woefull,
And so my smartyng heart despiseth
          The changing seasons.

the fall
     ing leaf
is all
the fall;
i call
     my grief
the fall
     ing leaf

We're fishes in the internet
Caught in the catch of net the day.
The smartest smartphones place a bet
That some night soon you'll meet a gray.
A U.F.O. (or, as they say
In England Land, a yoofo) flies
From where sweet baby scarecrows play
And eye the stars with googly eyes.

While sweating drops of acid sweat,
A cyborg prays away the gay.
A covid sneeze that's extra wet
Is heading thine iambic way.
Tuberculariaceae......
Is the password!  You win the prize!!
Ride on a rocket to Mars, crochet,
And eye the stars with googly eyes.

If you should dance a minuet,
Throw in a twerk for Claude Monet.
I fly around a jumbo jet
While crying, "Climate change!  Obey!!"
Unqualified I fly (hooray!)
A plane that fails hardwarewise.  
Olympic athletes play croquet
And eye the stars with googly eyes.

Enjoy a ride in Santa's sleigh
Before you make your reindeer pies.
Shake thou the darling buds of May,
And eye the stars with googly eyes.

A triolet
     's a pirouette
In a ballet
A triolet
(Or should I say
     A triolette?)
A triolet
     's a pirouette.

my eyes are drawn
to two seagulls
perched contentedly on
a ****-caked lamp post
nothing decorative
lacking flourish or accent
a simple narrowing pole
coloured inexplicably green
with gently domed cowls
that gulls and pigeons
seemingly frequent
marred by a combination
of cream brown white
for all i know
it could be
their own faeces
in which they stand
or it could be
weathered and aged
built up and dried in place
for days
for months
for years
perhaps even decades
never to return
to untarnished days
perhaps if the bulb blew
or the lamp failed completely
it might be restored
while it is repaired
but there is no
guarantee of that
and yet the birds
could not care less
they'll pay no heed
to that which is less
than perfection
treating this evidently
well-favoured resting place
the same as they would
an unmarred branch
protected amongst tree tops
or a dainty bird-bath
amidst the flowers
of someone's quaint garden

these pieces of my heart
too small to pick up
too fragile to put back together
but when you hold me
maybe
i don't need to be fixed

Chronology were neither
at the point of no return
                          or a way back.

What's perplexing in the narrative
is that neither can be changed,
                     as were in neither
but the  momentary



      fluctuation of either