Tiny beads of sweat
That trickle and tickle
like fingertips
Down the prim, transparent skin of
the pristine windowpane,
Leaving
leisurely trails of pleasure
and condensation’s kisses
Caught
in a sea that is submissive
As gentle summer rain.

Fate’s pendulum swings
Back and forth throughout our lives;
Never resting, but
Always testing
us, so that we strive
To make the most of everything
That its constant whims
Provide.

My scarred and scratched skeleton,
With bite marks on my bones
Where inspiration took hold
As it shook me to my soul, and
Turned my marrow midnight blue.

Beneath a summer moon
In a sky of faded blue,
A murmuration of starlings
Swell and swirl,
And sigh and swoop.

A thousand flitting shapes
That sweep across the seamless space
In swathes like nimble little needles,
Trying to weave
A tapestry
With threads of spun splendor and grace.

It begins with a beat;
A steady reverberation in an
elemental part of me.

Then the bass line comes;
A red-raw rush of energy
viciously visceral in my veins,
Elevating my feeble frame
From it’s meek and sorry state
To become something
Ferociously sublime.

And now I’m mainlining music,
Letting it
Soak into my skin
Infect my ears
Infuse my feat and
Bombard my quivering brain
With its beat
‘Til I explode into a mass
of minuscule notes;
Quick little quavers
like quarks
that waver, then stalk
through my mind,
Looking to find
fresh melodies, to which
my soul can bind
and bleed.

This is how it feels
within me,
When my body responds
to a purified beat;
This is true ecstasy –
When I fly on an
emotional high.

Gentle steps that pad up the stairs;
Thoughtfully soft and
hushed by the hands
of midnight,
So none might
hear him advance.
But he moves with such care
That no one
but you
Would know that he’s there.

He’s on the landing now,
Creeping closer to your door
But the cautious clock
is ticking him off, so he stops
before your doorway and drops
his big bag of darkness
(that’s squirming and restless
to swallow you whole);
Then he inhales the soul
of the tick and the tock.

Now there’s nothing left
But your heart and his breath
so you know this time it is true:
That the bogeyman is in
your room
your dreams
your head
your bed
For tonight, he’s coming
for you.

What happened to the crows?
All the other birds are singing,
Yet this family seems unwilling
to lend their voices
to this summer chorus.

Perhaps they have a reason;
Perhaps they feel it’s not the season
for their melancholy caws,
And so they pause,

And they wait…

For summer to pass, and
then the world at last
will be stripped of all colourful things,
Becoming as black as the crow’s wings –
A similarly stark and dark state.

Perhaps then the crows won’t hesitate
to crowd together,
And take their place
among their fellow, feathered brethren;
Perhaps then they’ll find the strength to sing.