A meandering mist
leaks from your
barely parted lips.
I am in awe
at the slow motion
spectre.
If only my open mouth
could catch it,
perhaps it wouldn't haunt me so...

A crack on the ceiling.
A line; far from deep.
Its cross-section layered,
Its existence discrete.
Unassuming and simple
in a room bright and plush.
Its existence is futile,
for its fate is the brush.
A restoration of beauty;
appeasing the strain.
Layering and patching
again and again.
As long as the eye
knows not that its weakened,
The flaw will endure,
now perpetual and deepened.
Its a crack on the surface
a line; far from deep.
Take heed of its presence;
but mend whats beneath.

An empty box, I wish I had
A space I long to find
Into which my heart could sing
When 'er you cross my mind

I wish a place, discrete yet vast
In this world or beyond
A portal hidden in my palm
to which love could abscond.

There safely kept, for days of rain
Spoilt not by woe nor fear
I'd call upon this excess love
When you are far from near.

...the War that is fought
beneath glazed eyes and
puckered brow.
How epic the battle,
in all its
exaggerated glory.
No bloodshed;
just words spat from
the trenches
to make casualties of
ears and pages.

She stood;
chin raised,
facing moonbeams.
The light only
gifted me half
of her face.
It was enough.
I could understand
why the night
held on to most
of her beauty.

I face the mountain;
Sharp and defined.
A tiny, uneven facade
skirting a perpetually
changing sky.
I grow envious
of its consistent demeanor;
Its' immutable character
in rain, hail or shine.
Now, closer to the summit,
I stumble on rockfall
and scree slopes.
I face the mountain,
Resolute and bold
in a final struggle
to assume its
soothing temperment.

We are the heartstrings;
we play songs in chorus,
to summon the hands
of the ones who adore us.
To call you to our land
to rule, as did Horus.
Yes! You built your guard:
tried hard to ignore us.
"Desist with that noise"
we hear you implore us.
But your wall is no match
for the lilt of the Taurus.
It's thick and secure
but deceptively porous.

Sometimes,
I don't listen
to the words you speak.
Instead, I watch
as your lips curve
and shape each sssound.
Sometimes,
I don't hear
a word you've said,
but I agree
with every breath
you've drawn between them.

"I cant even write"
she whispered.
"Don't", I said,
"You've already written
It all behind
sleeping lashes.
Come closer,
so I may read
from your eyes".

A lethargic frustration
has taken up residence
somewhere between
logic and clarity.
She's a devil;
a tantalizing waif.
Powerless but relentless
in her horrid little mission.
Pulling and clawing
at all that is good;
drawing curtains to
inhibit the light.
**** her
and her intrusion.
She has dabbled in
the dark long enough.
Its time.
She was never welcome anyway!

I hate the night and it's untimely creations.
The avalanche of loose words
doused on closed eyes,
begging to be assembled
into flowing images or
melodic alliterated sentences.
Adjectives lurk under sealed eyelids.
Verbs implore the body to respond.
Mocking my stillness they urge
limbs to act out in their name.
Verses arrange and rearrange
of their own accord.
They ebb and flow.
I'm too tired to grab them all.
Why now, when I crave nothing but sleep?
Why can't I conjure this brainstorm
in waking hours.
I grab a pen to write; semi-conscious.
It all jumbles into nonsense.
The dream state draws me back
to act out unconscious intentions.
I hate the night and all its promises;
Its lyrical musings
behind twitching eyelids.

I've dropped the reigns
which hold firm
my fingers and wrists.
They have galloped from
my control,
as I struggle to
steady them.
Inhaling through
flared quivering nostrils.
I struggle to fill the
space in my chest,
so I can empty it
instantly
with a tight ****** scream.

She has whipped me up in a whirlwind.
She has stirred each sense to a flame.
Not an ounce of my joy does she know of,
nor will she be told of the same.

Before I knew of you
I knew not of beauty,
but of what satisfied the eye
and kept busy the mind.
Now my mind smothers
with memories of days we never spent
and hours we never kissed away.
Beauty is forever redefined
by all that you are.

I hold on still
to the breath I drew
when I knew I loved you.

I will exhale only when
your mouth meets mine.

I've often heard people speak
about the sting of tear-burnt cheeks.
The taste of their salty exit
on bitten, nervous lips.
Rarely, have I heard them admit
how hard it is to swallow
the same tears before they
even reach the surface.
I've consumed so much of my
own, I have become the
salty roaring tide.

There are times
when my struggle
to summon but
a single word
provokes a
slideshow of
melancholy.
Vague, nervous
and unsettling.
Aged, like
flickering old movies
projected through
dusty beams,
absorbed by white
painted walls.

I've never wanted,
To never want anyone else,
Until YOU.

I stood and studied my ankles,
As they rudely interrupted
the passage of sea to shore.
Waves; they almost made it
to caress the sandy incline,
slowed to a final trickle,
as they reach their journeys end.
They grasp at grains of sand;
a desperate bid
to drag them home to sea.

And so, the waves
returned to my feet.
That lunar beauty
had stolen them away.
She bellied the ocean
bent it elliptic;
stretching the walk
from me to tide.
But no longer full
her grip weakened.
Salt water trickled
from her fingers
to rush cold
between my toes.

From where came you;
Sun drenched flower?
Why does yellow
not dissolve in you
like the others.
You beam back
at dazzled onlookers;
Bobbing your head
in agreement
with the beauty
you exude.

There is fire in her.
Fire deep within,
but too deep for her
lungs alone to fuel.
So she waits;
unaware of the blaze
that will flare,
when his breath meets hers.

Little twisted pages,
Soiled by frantic fingers
In you I hope I've outgrown
the woes of days gone by.
Your delicate leafs crackle
now gently peeled apart;
thick with tales of past
and hopes for future;
Summers' days are immortalized
by stale, flattened daffodils
and arrow pierced love hearts.
Words flow in arching loops
leaning top heavy to the right.

Sleep has grown tired
of my demands.
I ask more of it
on shortened nights.
Seduced by warmth.
Betrayed by sudden
consciousness.
I stir, I sit
I speculate.
Perhaps the moon,
she nudges me in my sleep;
to wake and keep her company.

The conditions are perfect;
unexplained heavy thundery feeling.
Biting nails, picking fingers.
Repetitive movements.
Tossing and turning.
All the ingredients for inner turmoil.
And yet...

**I cant write

Last night
the earth spun
too quickly,
making chaos  
of my senses.
The churning stole
away sleep,
making ghosts of coats
draped on bedposts;
demons of the
sheets against my skin.
How inconsiderate the morning,
to all but rush to my aid.

The sun projects a cross on the window blind.
A heavenly body skirting around the man-made.
The lines are perfection, though moving slowly.
Both silhouette and fire are facing each other;
Dancing clockwise,

Never to embrace.

I've found a use for this writers' block.
It rushes to disperse grains of sand from
the tightly packed sea bed;
to greet it with a slow-motion,
dampened
thud.

A half hitch binds it to my fear...

"To write", she wrote.
She needed it more than ever;
The letters ordered on paper,
Falling neatly in a way that
Expelled and deciphered it all at once.
She longed for the **clarity;
For the void that would materialise
Once the mind was cleansed.
She struggled to grip
even a syllable of substance,
to fling down in a hail of ink.
There weren't words.
None.
No line of text alone could capture
this bombardment of her senses.
Only an act would suffice.
Yet, here and now,
She is without a stage.

The warmth of bed, is draped on skin,
as I struggle to shake off the hazy hold of slumber.
My toes distort the rowed, uniform tufts of carpet.
They stand, stretched high to meet my weight.
To support my unsteady ascent.
I rise to feel last traces of dreams fall loosely
from my creaking shoulders, like a shroud of silky mist.
Voices and faces disappear, as rubbed eyes restore 'reality'.
Erasing the false memories etched on the minds canvas,
I make fiction of my nightly reverie once more.

The haze of breath
in frostbitten air
makes machine of
a body with a drunk
at the wheel.
Wisps of air  escape;
engineered to heighten
awareness of self.
Each ones exit increasing the
loneliness
I've always loved hearing;
"Any port in a storm".
Trimmed with an air of ambiguity.
How unambiguous is it though,
when looked at in hindsight.

I chose that port for this storm!

Polished and serene;
your vocal tones,
they soothe my stereocilia.

The draping curtain draws back
revealing a dimly lit set.
The cast scuffle backstage
in their daily quarrel.
I wish their din would cease.
The lights awaken,
Silhouettes of exasperated
hands come into view.

"A Comedy, it must be".
"Satire, surely, is what she needs".
"No, no, another Tragedy".
"Lets sing and dance; fill her with glee".

"Can we not do this again",
comes the voice of Reason.

Meanwhile, the protagonist;
She waits 'till the eleventh hour
to know of the script.

*It's all an act, at the end of the day!

Today is a day of peculiar bliss.
Of undue and novel joy.
A casual quiver of happiness
has unexpectedly been deployed.
Floating, fleeting and airy
A dandelion puff in a breeze
I smile as I relish the stillness
Of a once racing mind, now at ease.

Whether full or a half
or perhaps a mere crescent.
My eyes open widest
When her light is present.

I have no medium to capture you, perfect scene.
No lens or film can render your essence.
There are no words to speak of your beauty.
There is no sense to taste your presence.

I've grown wary of time;
its immutable intervals
of incessant hours.
The warmth of now,
the grey of then.
Is now not just
an analysis of when
this happened
and that was felt?
Scars, of mind and flesh,
act as bookmarks in
secret autobiographies.
Was it even dark then?
Will the present etch in me
a reference point;
a bench to sit and reminisce.
Or will this all be lost
from the narrative;
omitted casually from
the now of days to come.