The fading of memory as time closes in

It runs, feral thing, clawing its way to the corner

where it dives into the carpet and hides there

in the swirls of moth-eaten flowers and turquoise gaps.

The pathway it came down disappeared

and left it abandoned in the ruins, watching the stairs

it once so loved to climb

crumple into wisps of doubt.

What did the house look like before?

Does it still exist? Did it ever?

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Motes in the Blue

Its eyes peer into the bubbles that are lungs,
watching as they burst and refuse to gasp for air.
The ocean spills from my lips as I summon it, whale song,
to sweep me away from the surface,
the pigment dyeing its hide blue.
Sea mines pulse as it passes by, erupting into jellyfish clocks
that snatch at my heart and chest to shock me awake.Clear.

Smother me in sediment, wrap me in coral,
split my skin with the shadow of sunlight
and let the deep rush in.
Help me dissolve, evolve, return.

Certificate: sea foam.

Empty throne

The decor is gold filigree,

inset with diamonds, sapphires, jewels of a thousand worlds.

Bars of pure marble act as the walls.

But the cage is still just as inescapable as its steel brother,

and every bit as cold.

Tales by the hearth

The fire crackles in the grate,

shadows dancing with smoke tendrils as she reads

aloud, cloaked figures sneaking through her voice

to my wondering ears

as I cling to the embroidered arm of her chair.

 

The ritual nightly, yet never dull.

I play with the bobble on her slippers as she pauses to sip

Lady Grey from her fine china cup

then places it back on the saucer.

 

Resuming her place as though no pause had been taken

she leads me into the night

to meet the King of Dreams.

 

When I wake, the fire is dead

and her chair is cold,

its colours faded.

Out of Us

The cage rattles as the shrieks fill it up,

over-spilling the ribs to the point of cracking.

Look up,

look UP.

Don’t sink to the riverbed,

resurface and gasp for air.

Ignore the temptation

to sprint past go

until you’ve no go left.

Grip the safety line being thrown to you,

you know it’ll never be forced away.

You know you can’t push it away.

Keep sake

My heart is a trinket box

previously filled with costume jewellery

lovely in its own way

but I have sensitive skin

and you know how metals react with sensitive skin

over time.

 

I wore it often

thinking that I always would

claiming the style matched my own

even on days it turned my skin green

or threw up a rash.

 

It wasn’t until after a decade had passed

that it occurred to me I’d been avoiding

the obvious truth.

No matter how much I adored it

it was not a true match.

We weren’t compatible

in the way I thought

and gradually it had spilt out of my heart-box

leaving me empty.

 

Empty

enough to be filled

with something truly precious.

Not a trinket

not a necklace

not another box.

 

A living beating pulsing heart.

My own.

Observation game

Pedestals can be wondrous things.

Placing something high enough to be gazed at from every angle,

observing the symmetry, or lack of.

Sowing seeds

to sprout discussions, positioning light

perfect for an artist’s sketch.

But what of people?

If we put them up there too often, who is the first

to forget they are real,

and can be warm and loved and upset and abused,

capable of trust and betrayal,

and equal – yes, equal – to everyone else?

Them

or

us?

Monsters

In my mind after

it breaks down, the world

creeps up on me.

It’s a monster

in my head, sinking its nails in

until I bleed out.

 

Upside down,

I break through. Struggling for air

as I crash the surface,

tearing at the dark scales that cover my eyes.

 

I am a hunter, but also the hunted.

I am the monster.

I am the monster

of the world in my head.

Time bubble

I’m falling out of love with the apples

suspended in the air, frozen

on their descent to the ground.

The songbirds too, paused

in mid-flight away from the rain clouds.

I can stand in front of a whole swarm of bees,

rear ends rapier-pointed at my face,

knowing they will never pierce me.

What’s there to like

about a world that does not breathe?

Up to those eyes

In them we see

sugar and spices,

an apple pie baked full of ideas

all original.

Of course they’re original,

they made them,

enveloped them in tangy sauce

sprinkled with cinnamon

we find out is actually chilli.

Oh, and the homemade pastry?

That came from a shop.