Bones which knew no past existence
declare their right to life,
with nails and acid
that deteriorate cartilage guilt-free,
radiating from the extremes
to the buried heart within.
Quite rightly so.
An intelligent guest who
knows its better to enter
a peaceful, quiet home instead
of this toy soldier war-zone.
I cast no blame;
to my appendages
’til turmoil is
achieved in the head.
Walking is a past dream,
unsure if the life which
dreamt it was even mine.
My bones, dissent.
They are not mine.
They have seceded this Union,
an agreement in the past
that had been perfectly fine.
Toss and turn on the back which is still.
The sunrise is overrated: I see its
colours drench my walls.
my body still burns.
Shipping forecasts appear
When it rains it pours
and when it pours it
A new wrinkle on my face has
made itself cosy and warm.
At least someone is content
and has won from this war.
Passage of time
marked by drinks and the
clinking of glasses being cleaned.
My mind far from my eyes.
My eyes far from my mind.
I think I met you when you were young
but I’m not sure if that was me all so long ago,
or that you’d be the shade whom I stand across from now.
I never thought I’d still know you now, or how I still
smile murmuring your name.
Quell my brain who
barrages me with thoughts of truth!
I’m not as strong as it claims to be, so
can some soul tell me the sick, sadistic
pleasure it gives me with pictures and
scenes that taunt my eyes and which
hungers the heart – reminding of the standing
Diluted poison, a heavy taste of
amber reassures the bones that it won’t
feel the dull pain much longer. Clogs my
pores, pouring another glass – don’t stop me
as I swallow a newer death sentence.
Anything, to hope to distract me and my mind
from my brain.
Winds whisper half-forgotten
songs as I imagine, in
another tongue from minds long ago.
While the melody most sweet,
the lyrics point to bitter times
which echo through and only
around my core.
What is this empty pain
without a name which
I continue to feel?
These footsteps from
another day follow me
And yet I cannot not
name the echoing pain
after all this time, through
The skies a most grey,
noteworthy to none except to those
who have never lived three days
The people move.
And yet I stay. Carried only
by the wind, my mind overshadows
the sun too and leaves little
room for its rays.
I’ve forgotten the words that brought out
this ink. Wasted,
we take this memory for granted.
The aroma of a name,
or something along those lines.
The phrase had something to do
about you being mine. Which
is a selfish frame of thought,
Perhaps it is better then, to have such
thoughts lay in disrepair. To forget and
hide the awful, selfish side of my mind.
To touch the aroma of your name.
Or something like that,
romantic yet profound somehow.
I’ve failed to complete, forfeited
my right. But, perhaps it’s better that way.
Trench Warfare or Addressed to UK (III)
Silence is a burden
I cannot bear.
Trench warfare of thoughts
The distance, supreme, separated, dented by fraying knots.
Neither revealing the cards, the lot,
which is held at each end of the line.
Shatter me with cannons,
batter me with guns, but an empty
enemy hidden by thoughts is an
enemy I will not square.
To suffer in such silence,
self medicating by pushing
thoughts in cupboards and behind
rooms, is punishment lost upon itself.
If not to me, then to someone else.
But I’d rather you point your bullets at me
and not yourself to help relieve some of the pain.