Ever catch yourself
caught between
the light and dark?

Has the stark contrast
blinded you, both
from lack of
and abundance of
luminescence.

Ever rounded a night corner
and prayed that the road
materialises beyond you;
that it follows the path
the very way you
imagine it?

And have you ever felt utterly ALIVE in that
frantic millisecond of uncertainty?

I have.

I am the quill;
fleeting and energetic.
You are the consistent
flowing ink.
Your color knows
not of bounds.
In the inkwell we dance
You enveloping me.
Me, steeped in you.
Alone, we are but
pointed feather
and darkness.
Together, our stories
emerge from curved letters
on old, worn pages.

I look down at the arcs of white;
at the tattered bows which skirt my fingernails.
They signal the very edge of my extremities.
Each one with unique imperfections
owed to the muck and dirt lodged underneath.
They're hideous; soiled and grotesque from
digging deeper into my love affair with mortality -
my lust for the knowledge of what happens
when we are 6 feet below sun-lights' reach.

There was once a flickering flame,
Its rising heat causing no pain.
But a shadow it cast,
telling tales from her past.
Now she runs to escape it in vain.

You promised me the stars.
But what you promised was a ghost;
A last glimmer of light
journeying from something
beautiful
which had long since
collapsed.

A locked lake lies lonely,
deep beneath ice and snow.
Pieces of past still present
in delicate misty glow.
We wish to wake it.
We wish to know it.
I wish they'd leave it alone.

I think my mind calls it home.

If blinks did not capture stars instantaneous and still.
If eyes in slow 'shutter-speed' stared towards the heavens
while we 'slept' and composed the image layered and bright.
Would we wake to know a different night sky?
One of light trails and arcing lines; of paths stalled by Sun.
Would all stars be shooting ones?

And by morning, could we wish on every single one of them?

It seems so far from here and now,
Both in distance and in kind.
That place I found, through winding ways;
The time when I cared not for time.

When shadows stretched meant day was new
And as they shortened haste was made.
Butterflies played and danced and flew,
Distracting minds in need of shade.

Pain in toes and knees and hips
Dissolved all ailments of the head.
Stories poured from sun kissed lips.
Easing aches in time for bed.

I wandered back to times gone by
To grief, to love; so bittersweet.
I played them out, I laughed, I cried-
To the echoed fall of dusty feet.

In all the things I've so far learned,
Of all the 'me' I've yet to know
I've found that peace and calm is earned
Through open minds, on unknown roads.

And if the names, the talks, the places;
If they try to fade with time
I'll think of all the smiling faces;
Kindest hearts, now kept in mine.

A storm built and broke around her.
Lightening met earth by her feet.
Thunder shouted and bellowed;
its icy breath burning her cheeks.
But inhaling right down to her stomach,
she threw her eyes up to the sky;
let the rain wash her clean of her worry,
as she exhaled her fears with a sigh.

With dusty wings
and awkward flight
Your tiny buffalo body
bounces on the
delicate glass surface.
An exaggerated shadow
announces your plight.
Is it the beauty of
the butterfly
that spurs you.
Why so frustrated;
so persistent?
Do you know of emotion?
Maybe you do,
and it is your own
dark turmoil
that draws you to the
glass skirted flame.

I'd love for you
to feel the love
the way the love
feels for me.

I rarely yearn
for childhood days,
but these blue skies
encase me in
a haze of melancholy.
The swelter of
Summer sun in
sweet smelling cars.
Sand falling dry
from pockets and
untangled hair.
That rush of ice-
cold water, from the
wrong tap; always
with the promise
of ‘penny sweets' when
loving, aged hands had
towel-dried behind ears.
I miss the smell of
sun on my arms...
the taste of sea
on my knuckles.
The warmth of copper coins;
leaving circular
designs in the palm of
my hand.

One day, all of the 'coulds' will change into 'cants'.

Often, in mornings, I wake by your side.
                                               A magnetic field pulses from your core;
                                   summoning beats from my heart in its sleepy haze.
                                    Mesmerised, I fold into you, pulled            
                                       ­                                                                 ­                                            to the right;

                                                         ­            Nudged onto my side, by blood
                                                           ­                                                            rushing to be close to you.

Your leeward left lays
steeped in shadows,
as a perfect line flickers
outlining your silhouette.
Incandescent light makes
porcelain of your skin.
Its honest touch embraces
you with artificial moonbeams,
airbrushed and pale.
I watch your chest rise,
as you inhale the
atmosphere you have
created with your presence.

On reflection, I prefer the moon...

The space between each breath and beat,
is vacant now, a hollowed nest.
Where once wings fluttered soft and meek,
dust now settles down to rest.

The raider knew not of my plight.
With twisted key, she opened wide
the place where butterflies take flight;
the cage in which my heart resides.

The butterflies they danced and flew.
Some filled the mouth with words unsaid.
But lips were sealed, so numbers grew;
the crowding forced them out instead.

The ripple of their wings fell still,
their sprightly quiver fled my chest.
She drew them out, with time and skill.
I spat out love; truth wrapped in jest.        
                          
When all was said, the flutter waned
From love to hate, the din grew weak.
Though her hold lessened, her face remained
in the space between each breath and beat.

My left leg
is draped
across my right.
I know that
pretty soon
the pins and needles
will take hold.
Starting in the
fold behind my knee
and slithering into
a tiring ankle.
I don't much mind.
The rhythmic shake of
a nervous left foot
is mirrored,
as my right hand
finds my lip
and feels in earnest
for a loose flake
of dry skin
to pry off.
It will probably hurt.
I don't much mind.
I've fixed my eyes on
an empty stool,
analyzing the pattern.
Imagining the feel.
Imagining you;
What you'll say
when you get here.
To be honest...

I don't much mind.

Oh transient theater,
adorned with perfect
voice and script.
Why do eyelids chase you
night after night,
only to dismiss you
in the light of day?
Or mumble disquiet
at your imperfection?
If only the day
and night were lovers;
two plots embracing
in flawless script.
The perfect act,
on the perfect stage.

In an imperfect world.