Awaking to the noise of innocent birds
quivering in the shelter of the falling water.
I hear chilly raindrops drumming the surface of the windows,
making the satisfaction of my warm bed one of which even poetic imagery cannot define.

I relax to a heated glass of milk,
in the company of a delicious homemade biscuit.
Tranquilising on the sofa which I pleasantly sink into,
whilst my lover’s gentle eyes make the room even warmer.

The smell of the sizzling bacon,
that is succulently frying in the kitchen,
allows my mouth to water greater than my tummy rumbles.
It was no less than I had expected on a Sunday morning.

As I sink my anticipating teeth into the perfect sandwich,
I briefly appreciate that countless people would lust for this lifestyle,
that I hugely take for granted.
I could pretend that I care. But I don’t.

Green and mean, stench of nature
Tiny glass rocks, pale smoke
Combusted, inhaled, exhaled, ecstasy
Pathways to another dimension.

Sometimes bringing fear
Mostly tranquilising
Words flow even better
When you are in my veins.

Hearing the hidden
Under your influence
Feeling everything
Sensory affluence.

Becoming more accepted
In this backward world
A symbol of peace
Mother nature's milk.

Toyed with by Man
Now mutated, stronger
I long to stroke you
As you stand in nature.

Pass, pass, pass, pass
You are mine alone
And better with others
Tender unassuming glory.

I like to hold you
Feel you crumble
With sticky residue
A plant, so humble.

Silence
an eery sound
empty
yet fills and surrounds

Sometimes
it's cold
and terrifying

at other times
it's peaceful
and tranquilising

Silence
not a sound
sometimes it's lost
sometimes it's found

A lonely buoy sways in the waves of indecision,
bobbing up and down, and up and down
pacing back and forth, and back and forth,
from side to side and again under the amber road, moonlit.

The tides are calm but large, but the buoy doesn't sink.
It's prepared, designed, taught what to do
in moments like these: to swim back,
back to shore, back to safety, turn a back
to the great, lethal liquid land beyond our own.

But this time, that glow of golden light,
that hails from the incandescent majesty of the gloomy night-sky,
goes far into and over the horizon, glistening in the void sea,
glimmering on the bouy like golden lunacy,
capturing it, alluring it, cradling it gently,
shining on it like glitter and exposing it to a totally novel colour,
totally radiating and tranquilising — or so it would be
if not for the distant, real winds.

The such similar shade of orange, shared
by the sky-light and the streetlamps,
depict a tale of unfulfilled greatness and mimicry
(though I don't mean to insinuate that the lunacy is itself not enlightened)

Perhaps this is the way, to mimic
a mere fraction of the power of the giants
whose great shoulders we stand upon without gratitude,
unaware of how unfulfilled and untouched
and unkept our passions meet end.

The buoy battles with risk and reward, screaming and cursing
silently,
crashing out on the waves of both sides,
ripping and parting its poor soul;
the dark void at the horizon that divides the path
from the moon,
invites it, coaxes it, charms and enchants it to take a chance:
the leap of faith.

But the buoy sways on in the wind.