'Asleep', they say.
Waiting for whatever is to come next.
Though, a crooked nose and
Scent of decay pulls you back
To this reality —
The one you left not too long ago.
Empty eyes lacking pigmentation
Feigns life and claims you,
But only I see it.
Only I
Hate the past tense.

I want to be the person you write songs about.

I've heard the first two,
Though, neither make it clear.
So I wish there was a third
Story which told me why I couldn't see
The obvious end to what we had,
Or more specifically,
What we never got to have.

Stealer of face
Engulfs my very being.
Though, regardless of what I desire
I understand that ultimately
I am yours.
I will always be
Yours.

And I may be nothing more.

Eagles of stone stood valiantly outside
The rickety aged home of wood planks.
Though, were unsuccessful in their duty of protection,
As the roaring conflagration reduced the estate
To mere smoke amidst the icy air.

A grey-faced lady sits solemnly on a bench
For the fourth night in a row.

The twilight radiance casts a peculiar shadow
Around her presumably turquoise jacket
With bursting pockets of paper and pens.

Encircled by brightly-coloured books,
The lady, for the first time in her bench lamentations,
Raised her head and looked over to me.
And as our soft gazes collided, we noticed the darkening
Of the scarcely visible Moon, and the resultant
Gloom which consumed the surrounding greenery.

Though, she, with dreamy eyes, whispered so sweetly –
"I'll see you soon",
As she stood and became one with the encroaching dark.

Possums on a wire
Or on a roof.
Wherever they transpire
They remain aloof
To what problems we
Inflate and accumulate

Possums on a wire
Or on a roof.
Little care for how we take fire
And hide the proof
Of what damages us
Until the day
We meet our fate —
Wherever it may be;
Possibly on a wire
Or on a roof.