Old wooden knot holed thing.
rust wearing; sitting unplayed.
Strings silent.
Manuscripts of faded scores.
Tarnished ink quavers and semi quavers,
ride the weary stave.
This unheard music fills
the room with it's silence.

Thanks for giving your last breath, however
Til the end the list of taken things
Saw overgrowth and now at the grave
Eyes cast down
I can't decide
Whether to forgive you

Isn't it just the same as every story?
None to blame, shame myself
None to save, overwhelmed

Gently touch her, gently care,
For the day may come — swiftly when
That endless cruel knocking
on doors bolted from the inside
Dies down and turns into
gray silence.

She, irksome as it is,
goes round and round in circles
Looking for the missing pair
She wears the other one, anyway,
And sits down in grief.

She says, “I want to go home.
Let me go home.”
“Mama, you are home,” you answer.
Vexation rears its ugly head
And you force each horn,
one at a time, to recede:
To vanish from sight.

Then gaining composure you say:
“Mama, let’s pray.”
God hears, and you are healed. Set free.
Instantly.
Of the agony of bearing about
in your own body
The weight of selfishness
And sin
And sheer ignorance of
what it feels like
To have Time ****** away Memory
From you and those you love.

The stark feebleness of this
bent, white creature
With veined hands and bony feet
Reminds you of your own
Utter helplessness.
Mortality.

the wind grew still at night

as summer left in a deep blue haze

my breath escaped softly, speaking the words

of your own true name -

now autumn dances during the day

and then returns to subtle slumber with the dawning sun

so starry, so ephemeral, and luminous it presents

a new passing - ever so beautiful - has just begun.

lightning, bright as the sun
etched on eye, and mind
shaking with the thunder
rendered, deaf and blind

clouds, passing on
to the beat of striking shards
and ears, listening fond
as the storm's bright music starts

the darkness always passes
it's always been this way
storms and gales revealing
a newer, brighter day

so sitting on my roof
I sigh and blink, in time
I will no longer be aloof
because in a stormcloud, there is rhyme.

It is everywhere
The shadows of stretching retching black fabric
Covering the bones and eyeing the sorrow growing
It is disease and distress, at frayed edging
Cloaking, grim reaper standing
Lusting after the healthy
Its shadow stalking in the happiest memories
A midnight watcher, the anti-hero
The detective, detecting from inside the mirror glass eyes
Under the hood, behind the shutter, waiting for, surprise

I am but a bed ridden snippet of life
Found in carnal knowledge, lost in shadow and shameful abandonment
And when the world calls time
He has found me
The figure
The shadow
The stalker
Creeping, showing over my bed
Fingers reaching and creating upon my body
A spiders web, of patchwork skin and slithering rivers of meandering memory

(exhale)

Silhouetted figure, not unlike
A Film noir platform hanger
I can almost see the footsteps in the clouded smoke, arousing from the tracks
Hair that swings like a curtain call on a show ending
A chance for reminiscing
Too late, in memory, this shan't happen
Is regret all that is left, at the end of this disparaging journey

Over cloaked, and choked, with the thinnest of thread veiling my eyes
Lined up with your cries
I no longer see you, for it is spirit that keeps my smile
Not the attempts at keeping good humour that ricochet from wall to wall
The verbal game of squash, and I do not need to know what the world is wanting for dinner
I just need the satisfaction of completing an unfinished thought.

Breathing, keep breathing
I am blackened, no longer in breath
The midnight watcher, stalker
Retrieved the soul, of another
Black curtain, descending
The play, now ending