.
A speck on the horizon grows,
dark grey, foreboding and cruel,
stunting the sun's warm rays,
eclipsing the sky's perfect jewel.

Roiling clouds gather their skirts,
spewing across the azure blue,
spreading threads of droplet rain,
morphing the light into different hue.

Static is just the anticipation,
the excitement before the wonder,
the throb as high overhead
peels a belly roll of thunder.


© Pagan Paul (17/03/20)

.
Watch the morning tide
wash them all aside,
my castles by the shore
are gone forever more.

A billion grains of golden sand,
the remnants of my dreams,
float suspended in the current
and I drift along with them.
They in their watery solution,
me in the spaces of my mind.
Drifting.
The grains of sand sink and fade,
replaced by neon chain linked stars
and the sense of being completely empty,
not at all devoid. Just .. empty.
Drifting.
The floatation tank of loss
clasps the dreams with frigid fingers,
shrieking to be given its toy,
threatening never to open again.
But the Suns call from faraway skies
heralding to opine freedom,
release the fragments to individual broadcasts,
reaching out, out, out to the deep.
An umbilical tether for a fragile boat
is slipped to play adrift in a storm.
Letting go. Letting go.
Watch the morning tide wash them all aside.
Letting go.

I cast a mind spell,
wish them all farewell,
my castles in the sea
are evermore set free.

And my mind though now it be thought less
has no need of castles, for it is a fortress.

© Pagan Paul (15/03/20)

Eyelids flicker, close again.
Then slowly part allowing focus.
The morning welcomes sleepy eyes
and a window beckons.
Light streams through
and the view is of Spring.

The sun up in the sky
brilliant and ablaze with life.
From one horizon to another
clear blue light hangs,
lazily draping the world
and not a vapour trail in sight.

Silence is no longer a pause
between bursts of open noise,
rather, noise is an intruder
hectoring the moments of peace.
Until the sleep dirt clears
and the chorus of birds singing
is in harmony with serenity,
complimenting the absence of sound.

Different light in hidden places
shine a hue of emerald green,
flecked with orange and yellow,
single rays of playful sunshine.
The streams of brilliance persist
like the radiance of a palette,
if the painter is Mother Nature
and the picture is crystal clear.

And sleep though only minutes gone
is a forgotten rest memory.
The dreams faded and passed on,
given free, as a gift to the night.


© Pagan Paul (25/03/20)

.
The orb sinks below an horizon,
through a ***** window
bowing out with all grace,
concluding another day
and I write.
A stream of conscious falls
and fills a page with woe,
my heart cradled in dark
as another wave of nausea
interrupts a pleasant dusk time.

The pen rests but itches to scrawl.
The words are counted there,
the order somewhat confused.
And slowly, slowly, cautious,
they flow with random airs.
The darkness of day's end
seeping into every phrase
without prejudice.

The number 2 in relief
inscribed upon a brass disc
reflects the dullness of evening,
styled like a swan
in a maudlin funeral pose.
The day scurries away,
grey clouds tumble above,
another quiet night beckons.
I taper light a candle
welcoming the flame as company.
The pen still lays silent,
abandoned.
The itch to scrawl spent,
dreaming.
Dreaming in the mist.

Horns call from the ether
floating through the mind,
as a quill dips ink
ready to be born and flourish
in a better world.
As the first word
is inscribed across the page,
the rest tumble race
to be arranged in neat rows,
to entice the eyes of readers.
The continue to flow
with increasing agony
in a far-seeing mind-scape.
The memories of time rise up,
breaking the fragile surface,
and over-run the quill pen.
Words fighting to get out
and be immortalised
upon a crisp white leaf page.
The fine strokes go on
until the thread ends.
But instantly picks up the next
and starts to weave and sew,
stitching another stream of words.
The tapestry starts to form,
an image for a story.
But the mist returns and coils
and the pen sleeps on.
Its dreams just wisps of smoke,
a candle snubbed and extinguished.

I stare at the redundant pen,
a white feather waiting.
I think of another story,
a white feather waiting.
A call to tickle the pages,
a white feather waiting.
But there is a spectre also,
the black ink of nightmare.

The pen dreams of eloquence,
I dream in the dark.
The pen wishes for permanence,
I wish for the spark.
Ignite me! Ignite me!
Don't try to fight me.
Ignite me! Ignite me!
Take words and write me.

Scribe my name across your heart and read,
words my pen writes and my mind bleeds.


© Pagan Paul (28/03/20)