The pail hurriedly fills to its brim
From a gushing river, pure and deep.
Unsullied by the chrysanthemums and lilies
Which encircle the babbling brook.

‘Almost full!’ proclaims the Lark
Perched atop an aged oak,
As the wet trickles down the bail,
‘Soon, soon, soon’ he sings his song.

Down flutters the Owl with a hoot,
‘What say you, Lark?’
‘With your songs so sweet and pail bursting,’
Feathered talons grasp the neighbouring birch.

The tinkling warble resumes,
‘Not yet full!’ the Lark weeps,
In a melodic trill.
‘Still. More must be filled.’

Amidst the river stones and collapsed trunks,
The pail sits, engulfed in the serene.
O'er the vessel the Owl hovers,
As talons clutch the sopping bail.

Suddenly, the jaws separate, delivering a soft hoot;
‘To be bursting is no more complete than to be hollow’,
Warns the venerable Owl with its warm,
Serrated feathers surrounding its pale face.

‘Well, when shall I quit?’ asks the Lark in a daze,
Raising its beak to the Heavens.

‘You shan’t quit. For we all strive to be full.’
Asserts the Owl, bathed in divine light,
‘The water shall forever drip in this stream, as it shall drip in you.’
As he ascends in a flurry, the pail too flies,
Splashing upon the adjacent foliage,

Now it rests
    Neither full nor empty.

I
Whether inner or outer, the matter is naught
Many sought after what cannot be bought
Though heart and mind is where it all lies
An impeccable vision beyond your mere eyes.
  
The signature mark of human kind
Dream and reality all intertwined
Cold as ice, hot as raw fire
Grand aesthetic for all to admire –

Seldom achieved, unable to build
Quenches all thirst, all hungers fulfilled
With all imperfections, itself so flawless
Rules are negated; thus, it remains lawless

Greatest of weapons bound by no defence
For it may be subtle, yet so intense
Partnered with love, a potent ideal
Beauty will call, no need to conceal.

II
Silence lay steadily against the barren walls
Aging wood, icy stone
An empty carcass rotting away
Unable to feel or be felt
                        Allowing nothing in or out
Though a poison seeps within its walls
Changing it, from what it was once before
Now wearing a mask as if to disguise,
                   The unseen horrors lurking inside
Goblins and ghouls are the least of your worry
For what lies inside is far more heinous
Beauty’s opposition, readily awaits
No longer a guise hiding the truth -
Reality is met with eager eyes
A stammering figure soundlessly screaming  
Hauling chains and a mirror of lies,
Though not evil, a choice in itself
                   Ugliness within can often be mended.

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.

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.

There will come a day
When I look at where we once were
And feign a smile, caught in nostalgia, and
Think to myself of what we once were —
There will come a day
When I see you as no more than a poorly developed photograph
Imitating a life which has been long since abandoned.
There will come a day
When I discover truth.

Each carriage rushes past
Asking me who I want to be -
  Fix my collar,
  Stand taller,
  Hang my bag off of my back with only one strap,
  Hold a book,
  Check my reflection in the stained glass.
As doors pass, so do parts of me,
And what I may be.

There was a boy
Once disillusioned by the idea of seniority,
Who one day realised his dad might be wrong.
What I heard when he was dying
Takes unusual form in my memories.
A lively spirit masqueraded in a stained shirt.
All too reminiscent of the boy
Who was once the light of my eyes,
But cannot be.
The light had gone out that day.

A year since his death and I’m fine.
I don’t mind formalities but
Being backed into corners by crazy family is more than I can handle.
    Your aura has changed!
    It’s blue, know what that means?
    Oh, of course not.
    I never saw you as a writer but
    Psychology is a well-fitting hat.
    Are you happy? You look sad,
    Whys that?
I’d be happy without this conversation.
There’s no cold water left.
I wake up and everyone is still here.
The house is anxious
The dog screams
I say these things, but I know I am fine.

I think words disgust me
But touch amuses me
I get confused sometimes and
Mix up what I think
I think touch disgusts me
And words amuse me
But I never do know
What I really mean.

When I was little
I needed my dad to lower my chair with his weight.
When I alone pulled the lever
My chair would go higher and higher
When I wanted to go down
So my dad would sit and pull and
Take me down with a grin.

Tomorrow I will wake just like today and
Think of what I feared most
Having now become more than
Nightmare or dream
It is in my hands or
Perhaps on my back
I’m a feline I scratch
I want it off
Marring me
Far more than mere skin
My spirit is *****
I want to wash it
Seeing black run down my legs
And hair frizz like a day so familiarly faded,
Yesterday, I yearned.

We sat on a log
And called it a spaceship
You insisted on being the pilot.

I don't think I've had a single original experience.
I can't seem to finish a book anymore
I get halfway through one before I start another.
I think my friends can't stand me.
Work terrifies me.
I can’t handle damage to my confidence
Though it is already dangerously low.
I live for weekends but struggle to leave my room to actually live.
It’s reassuring to know that I’m just the same as most others
No one likes their job or even reads at all.
Maybe my friends don’t hate me and I’m wrong.
I always wonder
What my reflection looks like to others
Since I struggle to see beyond the blur.

Your gnawing claws of ever black,
Outstretched to grasp the warm
Opening to Our heart.
Your darkened boots and pale face
Feign a pout as though to mourn
That of which you in fact command.

'Who invited you into Our home?'

It's really great to see you again -
But who are you exactly?
With an uncanny likeness to someone I once knew.
A traitor of culture and face.
A soul come adrift.
Where do you wish to be?
You've always desired more,
Yet I see your future clear.
An empty carcass devoid of what gave you self.
A voice soft-spoken and bathed in envy,
Lacking cognizance and perpetuating hedonistic acts.
A departure from your familiar figure with a ghastly outstretched hand
Requesting I become like you,
Abandoning oneself and
Embracing thy disarray.

You've just become a photo.
Your name now a void of sorrow,
With little meaning beyond a sound
From the lips of those who remain.

To sacrifice what I feel to
Ensure we remain
What we have always been.

Yet I cannot assure
That I can make us what
I know we must be.

If time has yet to ease
What I know to be true,
How am I to guarantee
That I am able to suppress
These feelings which have
Loomed and darkened
Our lives?

An everlasting stain
Of which I am to blame
For the mess
We have made.

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.

I want to be the person you write songs about.

I'll tell you all about it when you awake —
How the brilliant bees buzzed as they rested on your
Birds of paradise and hummed a happy tune alongside
The brightly shining beams of radiance,
And the scent of sweetness resonating from
Your hive which filled my nostrils.
I'll make sure to tell you all of it —
And I won't skip a single detail.

A gathering of clouds reminds me of what it was like
All that time ago, when you were more than an echo.
Now, rainfall is all but a memory of what is lost,
And what I am yet to accept is gone —
Reduced to an untouchable phantom wearing your clothes.
But as the rain gives up, I still see your hand over me
And I manifest a grin to show you I'm here,
Still.
After all this time,
I, unlike you, never left.
Because without you, the rain is cold.

A barren home
An indescribable emptiness
“Under development”.
A loss which lingers.
The air of pain.
Still, there remains
Something.
A speck of gilt
Serrated and luminous
In the ravaged pasture o’ emerald,
Murders of crow’s chortle,
Feathers of lark’s fall
Bodies of sparrow’s lay.
A display, spread uniformly amongst the
Blades of liquor-green, stained with
Unusual crimson.

Mannequins move when people do not.
The untrodden land a lingering invitation
To which a response is owed yet seldom delivered.  
Edifices of grandeur loom with open arms.

Mannequins move when people do not.
Hills green with envy and
A thousand eyes which blankly stare
At what dares traverse a land bereft.

Mannequins move when people do not.
Voices cry out in an unfamiliar tongue
With an intertwinement of shrieks
And woeful sobs that reverberate far beyond.

Mannequins move when people do not.
Vacant cradles still rock
Back and forth as they once did
Long ago when whines were heard.

Mannequins move when people do not.
A longing to return to what once was
Before the shrapnel had rained
And they marched, unashamed.

Mannequins move when people do not.
Poppies of red made all the redder,
And slanted signatures upon scarlet letters.
Yet, a lone gaze accompanied a fragile thought,
With sorrowfully spoken syllables
And pursed lips, almost hypocritical
In their aimless deed to redefine sympathy.

Mannequins move when people do not.
For what else does when people do not.
Mannequins move in tactless ways,
Not knowing of transgressions of past days.
Mannequins move when people are nought.
Land demands a usual offering,
One of which silence is futile.

Rapping at my window,
Tracking in mud —
Allowing a draft to enter
My four walls.
Who is that knocking on my door?
A wordless whisper accompanies your sightless gaze
With a ***** essence following.
Who let you in?

The more I look into your eyes,
The more I see the one-way mirror,
     Yet I dare to look.
I see my silhouette,
Though I’m unsure if You do.

How come
Every day
As I walk
Through the room
Which was once living
I glance over
And stop,
Staring at the
Empty leather chair.
And as I freeze
I ponder what
Was once there
With glazed eyes
And whisper
Your name.