Trebled fountains and lenient trees
Swift in their purity from the ground
Fondles the earth and all its mysteries.

Grapes, crushed and given a reason to live, or a raisin. Aren’t we all
living in dissonance?
It feels, and we know it does.

Towers landed from the skies of our imagination,
the earth solidifying into architecture and sterilisation.
The sky cries for us.
Our obliviousness perpetuating us into oblivion.

We rushed being distracted, and we rushed being in love.
We rushed our existence into a world unrecognisable.
Our brains absolved of sin by
nature regrowing under our noses.

We will rush everything,
until everything rushes us.

Once again, the brain fogs
White clouds pulling the wool
Over, keeping the brain warm
From the cold of an oncoming storm
A symptom of depression
Doctor’s recent diagnosis
And I know it sits in the pocket
Of someone else’s procreation
Associated disassociation
My mind now in the sky

But

What more can be said about the birds that paint the skies
Above our eyes
Above the peaceful waters
Above the gleeful lies, and misinterpretations
That lobotomise
A fishhook pierces the eyes
Watering as we say our goodbyes
The hook yanks and the brain follows
Away we go, mood lowly flowing, low.

Birds lively flying.
Dying, alive.

My mind is now across the pond
Flying and nesting on some other land of particular dreams
The birds fly to meet
The birds fly, alive
If you could still see, I would tell you
To look high into the sky where
Some birds fell
Birds are forming ones brain
Wrapping around white clouds
Which they defeat, us still on our feet
Alive and kicking
Beating their wings, alive.
Mid-dive.

I wish I could cry, and show I’m alive
But I am dry, and the pond is full.
My dreams may die, like the withered wings of the gull.
Falling from the sky.

Desiring wings
I could swim, if I hadn’t caught
My foresight
Reeling in, just a thought.

Do something.
A poor man set alight in an effort of cleanliness.
I watch from afar.
Listening, they state unto him
‘You’re in *****’, at the crushed elbow
Ohmless without the socket to connect to
reality, or the inner workings.

In his last moments he sees his brainless actions,
judged into legislature, written onto empty white sheets
by comfortable people, richly controlling his money,
carving ink into his bones.

There is a fog in front of his face.
Bone piles engulfed around, at once me being thankful
for his suffering to be enveloped in warmth
And wrapped in more and more metallic sheets.
He barely grasps the burns underneath exhaustion,
drugged from the fumes of proto-grief.
How arrogant he is to file guilt for the guilty.

There he sits whilst skeletons burn him alive.
God seemingly absent, or late to the party.

The breath of death,
a fog on all cracked lenses,
still yet to be cleaned.

The old man is gripping his hands
On the damaged, wounded arms of the chair
Sat in the corner of the cold room
Entrenched in health care
Hearing some kind of harsh echo
either over here, or over there.
He remembers

A man, half drowned in the mud
Being pulled down into hell,
in agony.
Arguably better off than the
bombed few that still tell the tale
that still remember, like the old man.
He remembers

A boy, spectacled, blown in two halves
Half dead, hands are still shaking, temporary hell
in agony.
Unimaginable, alien, agony.
Only then, the old man notices
Cracked, chipped skull bones splatter around
All around, seasoning the ground
The glasses untouched.
He remembers

An older man, digging the trench deeper
Diving into the earth, burying himself
to save the trouble of someone else
Gasping the gas, he turns on
the taps, filling the bath
with fluid and blood
in agony.
And the remains
of some other unlearned war
Pointlessly fossilised,
for our eyes to remember, lest we forget
like the old man.
He remembers

In agony.
Half remembered, half forgotten
Although wanting to forget
everything.

The hand reaches out from the bed, failing to grasp the bread, circular again, appearing from the hands of another.

Paralytic, unmoving, seeming to be controlled by wires attached to broken skin, stuck.
Awkward, the talk would make her seem to again lose grasp, cast out in exile once again from the conversation
from inside.

Dimming, beautiful light, disgusting dark spilling onto personality and memory.
Touch and sound severed.
Shadowed sight and blocked canal.

At last, a taste.