beyond a sun-warmed parapet
with a dot-eyed wondering smile
fingerpainted in storm-lit dust,
purple bougainvillea spill into a fresh grey sky,
fluttering in sweet lightning wind
like painted wings of a sunbird.
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 2:46 AM UTC
Tell me a story, traveller,
of unwalked roads you walked alone
beneath the blue and sunlit sky,
paved with earth or cobblestone
and straying clouds that wander by.
of strange lands and stranger folks
and strange songs they sang with you,
in strange tongues they call their home,
that, in your dreams, was somewhere new.
of temporary loves you loved,
then set your broken lovers free,
and healed your broken, heartless soul
beneath the starry sky and sea.
of darkened woods and foreign sound
that haunt the night-time every night.
of moons that follow footsteps quiet
and stars that watch in silent light.
of stormy nights and thunderclouds
that failed to bring your childish fears,
and drowning rain that drowned the winds
and brought you melancholic tears.
of snowy golden sunsets high
on mountain sides, ragged and old
and tears of wonder, tears of joy,
love of stories left untold.
of rivers running swiftly by
your resting sleep ere break of day.
of twilights that blanket the sky
and sweep the orange clouds away.
of lost lanterns and memories
and aimless wandering in the night.
of faraway towns of scattered starry
homes so warm and hearts so bright.
of lone camp-fires’ dancing songs
and lonely faded quiet applause.
of longing and of selfish pain,
of losing love and loving loss.
Tell me a story, traveller,
of reminiscing in grateful shade,
and of your final travel home
before your loving memories fade.
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 10:15 AM UTC
he leaves his
window open
so the rare
wind whistling by
through a dust-coloured
day; in a
dust-coloured cell
on a dust-coloured
treasure chest lie
his faded blue
attire, worn and
patched by gentler
days,
greyed gracefully
to dusty black;
new wrinkles
on his face
weigh him down;
a faded
treasure chest
stares at a cement
coloured wall
over his head,
and the lonely
voiceless mist,
blinding; hear it
call
to rusty,
dark and sunless
sky, reflected
in his eyes,
when a bright and
impish countenance
eclipses tired
sighs;
the tired rusty
treasure chest
five decades
hibernates,
to feel the stirring
light of grey,
to feel new
hope, awaits
the cold and
stinging storms
that pour, taste
salty youth again;
the dusty
yellow rain boots
melt, ecstatic
in the rain.
T. E. Pyrus
https://lampteacupoverthinking.wordpress.com/
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 2:09 AM UTC
faery dust
i conquered Latmos at sunset.
wind flew swift and secretive.
gold-orange leaves had songs to give
my triumphant sillhouette.
my fingers held misty stardust.
the purple paintbrush flickered hues
of flaked and rosy multitudes
of soft and silent lust.
the evening star twinkled so bright.
my tip-toes rippled the moonlit lake
and watched the spell of daylight break
to mysterious twilight.
wait until faeries arrive.
and slide into an evening, still.
like latern on the windowsill,
the night sky came alive.
the willows wept heartache.
a night owl glided softly by.
under a billion suns i lie
for evermore awake.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 4:22 AM UTC
does the word
isolation mean
that they place you
on an eternal
glacier at dawn?
it’s not windy
but cold; tales
and yarns that
you fold, but there’s
no one around,
they’re all gone,
and you’re quiet
in a wheelchair,
head high, in a
world where you
cannot ask why,
but by grace,
if you do, they’ll
all say, ‘mary sue!
say thee, that’s
a fine bird in
the sky!’
so you stay
there, your book
upside down,
staying lost ’til
you want to
be found,
you sit with
the back of
your head to
the world,
tired, ‘touch wistful,
o’ the people
of gold,
when you spoke,
they all shrouded
the truths that
you told,
now wait still,
all alone,
not a sound.
then one day
you hear your
heart call, after
forever of
nothing at all,
then your eyes
are warm, glistening,
but nobody’s listening,
melt a hole through
the floor and you fall-
right through ice
and through stone
and through crust,
diamond you,
you shall burn
for you must,
feel your heart
beating loud,
blaze a bright
brilliant cloud,
singing,
ashes to ash;
dust to dust.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 3:41 AM UTC
i love those
spacey rooms
where basketballs
echo like
an irregular
beating heart;
i love those
little rooms
with huge windows
and careful white
walls, that try
to make up
for narrow floorspace
with ventilated dreams;
i love those
vast rooms
with wooden floors,
and a mirror
that covers
an entire wall
along the length,
beside the
ballet bar,
and alternating
false pillars of
hollow wood
along the
lonely wall
that faces the mirror
so that music
echoes and
reverberates
to outweigh
the ghost footsteps
in pale satin
ballet shoes
that dance alone
through the night
in a resolute stupor,
occasionally peeking
through the
now-shut door,
awaiting the
gracefully grayed
shining eyes,
the off-white shawl
with tiny red
tulips like
summer theater,
and a walking stick
to waltz delicately in
at the break
of 8 o’clock tea.
i love those
cozy rooms
with an exquisite
mahogany coffee table
and a crystal swan
centerpiece,
the patterns on
the couch in a
range of shades
of coral to match
the snugly sized,
maroon, artificial
velvet cushions,
and a gray
stone fireplace
for when it snows,
a dimmed lamp
on the mantelpiece
beside the
mollified and dozing
black cat,
and the water-colour
painting on the wall
of a waterfall
with surreal
strokes of yellow,
lilac and rose,
a tiny framed
photograph of
a redheaded
young lady
with a green scarf,
her lover’s arm
around her shoulder,
their smiles, warm
enough to melt
the blowing blizzard
from the north;
i love those
overly spacious rooms
that come with
white carpets,
and white walls,
and white bedsheets,
and a brimming itinerary,
the glass window
that covers the wall
facing the miniature
open-kitchen,
a bright blue
coffee cup with
a tiny yellow
handprint rests
on the glass
center table,
and the faded
sound of pouring
rain and sleep
deprived keyboard taps,
the blankets in
the morning
smell of half-familiar
moisturizer;
i love those
smallish rooms
with a twin sized
bed in a corner
by the world map
on the wall,
the light gray
t-shirt from
the previous day’s
excursion with
uninteresting people
lies comfortably
on the chair,
a fumbling trigonometric
ratio beside the doodle
of a scratched out
name on the notebook
beside the headphones
on the floor,
an old piece of
ruled paper
sticks out from
in between the
yellowing pages
of the old dictionary,
that lies idle
amongst the
bizarrely ordered,
rewritten pages
with the ingredients
for that story,
with an old orange
crayon scribble saying
my brother
told me today
that dragons ar real,
and the dark
blue curtains
flutter only slightly
in the midsummer
night’s breeze
through the open
window, and the sound
of a far-fetched ‘perhaps’
in a psychedelic dream
that this was
the night when
the dragons
would return…
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
and then
you look for
a way to
peel of your skin,
a candlestick
and a rusted
blade beside
the matchbox
because the
dreams were
too magnificent for
you to ever
grow into,
so you lie
beside it
in a corner,
let it pour out
like wandering
silver mist
from a stranger’s
lost cigarette,
too exhausted
to be another
hand-me-down;
teeming with
pride
like a writer’s
old notebook
that still smells
of old lavender
and almost
unused lipstick
and teardrops
and ink blots
and almost
unnoticed mistakes
and a little
too much sentiment,
outlawed by time,
ripped out
like a reluctant
heartful of stifling
frustration and
fragmented
with sarcastic
tenderness,
like gravel
that once
hoped to
be sculpture
in an ancient
museum of fine arts,
because, y’know,
everything
is fine
until it’s gone;
shine bright;
dead stars
were born in
the wrong
galaxy; dead
people were
merely unlucky.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
does
the caged soul
in the lantern
make you wonder
if all things
bright and beautiful
were to be seen
but never felt?
or did your
scheduled interruption
of ludicrous
malcontentment
waltz right into
your empty mindspace
and pluck your
pretty eyeballs out,
because, well, i
obviously convinced
him to, and
what good were
they, anyway?
you never
saw me
storm into your
vaulted life
with half determination,
clear the dust
off your subconscious
so you could see
the constellation;
you city lamp,
it hurt your pride
when you learnt
to look inside
and found an
excavated void
of vice and
nowhere you
can hide,
tell me, was it
arduous to decide
to climb
the cliff
and learn
to fly?
i'll tell you why:
that vengeful
little bird
has acquiesced
without a word
to aim and
shoot you in
the leg, then
watch you grovel,
watch you beg
until you shatter
onto the floor,
heartbreaking
piteous and poor,
like a broken
autumn leaf
but it's not
pretty anymore;
molten wax
around your ankles,
i'll let you
ornament my
candle stand,
let you burn
right through
the night; i
should've known
my little
counting stars
were far too
bright, too fluorescent
for you, feckless,
worthless, bewitching
scrap of pretty, vain
frustration.
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
don’t you spark
the fire and
abandon me,
you abstraction
of insolent
soliloquy of
elegance; all
of existence
craves a taste
of your savory,
effortless
whimsicality;
i’ll sail upon
a thundercloud,
braid the stars
into my hair
and remunerate
for my flawed,
scarred skin,
scathed soul,
with mellow
eyelashes like
rain; macrocosms
look vain,
through a
night-owl’s eyes;
trust my lies
when you fancy
truth, a vile elusive
absolute; trust
my eyes when
you fancy cold
decimation of
love and gold;
the morse code:
remains of your
melodramatic memory;
never look away
from me; i’ll fix
you like a broken
puppy toy, scuttle
across the bedroom
floor with agonizing
apathy, stay forever
and always with me
with your binary love,
you trivial, perfect machine.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 5:45 AM UTC
countdown to the
nearest thirteen;
life on the red
satin ribbons seem
like fairy-tales in disguise;
dress you in laces and frills
like a string puppet;
the monster under my bed
will bring you down
with my consent;
here's a world
where skin is thicker
than leather when
you hold the blade;
'tis all the same for me;
rush of cold metal
on your skin
rush of cold metal,
blood on your lips;
live and let live
but **** or be killed;
here's a hypocritical
world of love;
psychedelic bewilderment
and what kills you
makes me stronger;
i'll fill my pockets
with your memories,
your darkest reflections
are but a confused
midnight kitten;
hold still, my sprightly love
while i paint you
onto my soul;
blood on canvas.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 4:15 AM UTC