Poetry

Your legs are crossed, a solid base

to ponder the long hours we spend apart,

seeking a way to change the shape

of what the timelines hold.

 

You watch the mountains change their caps,

the saplings grow wider,

see the decay of walls

and erection of new ones.

 

Eyes stare back at you,

weary, withered, hopeful.

They think you have the answer.

They think your shoulders are right to take the weight.

 

Inside, you are crumbling.

Inside, the water is building,

pushing ever against the dam.

The clock’s ticking is incessant.

 

One day you will break,

and they will accept how human you are.

Flooding everyone with the rawness.

By then, I will return,

and mend the hurts leaching you away.

Poetry

The time I saw a quarter

It looks exactly like victory – if you squint a little. A hungry mouth waiting to swallow the world up whole, too famished to savour the taste. Someone once told me that taking such a meal would never truly sustain a person: half of a half, carrying on in a waking dream fishing for starfish to throw at the sky.