Poetry

You can come out, now

It’s funny seeing colours jump around on your skin

when all you’ve looked at before

is black and white.

When supporting hands surround you if you fall

instead of nothingness,

and the darkness can’t take hold in your mind

because sconces filled with rich fire have been lit throughout

its pathways.

 

It’s funny, having backup, an alter-ego, a friend.

You don’t quite know what to do,

because the part of you that remembers this is what it should be like

is still hiding under the blankets.

 

 

 

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Poetry

On a spring day

Her name is made of leaves

as she cups the sun in her hands

and turns it into golden liquid, elixir

blood, life.

Her face is of soil, is of water,

drawing, drawing

until her heart turns green, then red

and erupts

for the bees to collect.

Her pieces fill their baskets

and they spread her fingers everywhere.

Sparks for everything she touches.

 

Poetry

Eye Sore

They’re not reflections, they’re windows.

Diamond thoughts set into heat haze.

You see everything.

The room with the book on the nightstand,

open

with the pages facing down and spine stretched,

cracked down the centre

and fragmenting out.

Like they’re trying to be reliable, transparent

but haven’t quite figured it our yet.

Poetry

Rattled bones

It’s a lovely spring afternoon, so much fresh air!

Until I step outside for a quick nip to the shops:

humans doing human things everywhere.

 

A snarky conversation rolls by with a pram,

loud enough to be commandments –

I think I did see a tablet in their hands.

 

Cars zoom past on a racecourse I can’t see,

their colours all blurring into one

and a thunder juggling my insides around violently.

 

Then there’s the monster being fed parts of tree,

gobbling them up as tasty snacks

while its tamer looks upon its destruction blindly.

 

I admit I can’t fault the elderly chap mowing his lawn,

after all, the sun is out and the grass is dry,

but all combined this noise shatters me and leaves me drawn.

 

Such a journey may have been a simple quest in theory,

yet for me the price of undertaking it

meant spending the rest of the day dead weary.

Poetry

3am

It’s 3am and there’s a glow in the room –

or rather, there isn’t. Not tonight.

Tonight there are shadows, there are whispers,

hums through the house

bringing out the dust from the floorboards.

It’s the restlessness of emptiness,

the hours wondering when there will be movement,

when that glow will return

to lie beside you and sing slumber into your cells.

You wonder if you should catch it next time,

and propose it stay and watch over you

not for hours, but years

in return for you actively recharging

to hold back the dark.