You are the voice whose edge is diamond
You are the voice of the waves and the swell
You are the voice whose call always wakens me
You are the voice of the people who fell
Tag: surreal
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How much would you pay for bottled love?
Hanging up on a market stall
like fairy lights, all twinkling away
in different colours.
Bright pink for that first crush, that first taste of romance.
Steady indigo for familial love, overriding all those arguments that ended in slammed doors and broken crockery.
Lush, meadow green for those best friends who have stood by you for years
and will do for many more,
possibly because they now know you too well for you to let them escape.
How about that deep crimson
for a person you wish to wake up to every day, forever?
The vendor rattles them all enthusiastically as you walk by,
making them dance about,
shouting about special offers for previous clients,
two for the price of one,
a complete returns policy if things don’t work out.
She dangles a handful of free samples in your face
and you can’t help but get caught up in the wonderful scent
of love
that threatens to stitch up all those wounds
forming your heart.
It’s tempting.
It is.
But it’s fake.
Manufactured for the vulnerable,
and I know you aren’t the type to buy into it.
Reoccurring
I’m still falling.
I see the ground rushing towards me even as it floats away.
My feet
no longer know what it is to stand on solid boundaries;
they pass through
and I am birthed out into a loop
of waking and sleeping
and waking again to find that I’m still sleeping,
and can’t escape.
My breath comes short
but also long,
empty lungs somehow full to bursting.
How can this be real?
How can I be real?
How can I stop myself
from fading away?
Here is a picture
Here is a picture I painted. I did it
for you. In one corner
you can see the roses I gave you
on our first date. On the other side
there is the park where we took our first stroll.
Yes, I even included
the gravestones – I knew you’d like them.
And in the distance your foot,
just visible behind the tree
where I hid you.
Upturned paint tins
Shelter; storms gather as we escape
down the grassy staircase, vines
threaten to catch our ankles.
The ground splits open on the final
step. We’re swallowed down –
or perhaps suspended – in the giant
stomach of crumbled earth.
The MC appears behind us.
‘Describe how you get your ideas.’
Treeshallow Musings 