the invisible weight
of blind transition
climbs my back
sits upon my shoulders
laughter goes silent
colors once vibrant
turn black and grey
I move in slow motion
every thought enslaved
every dream a nightmare
my monster has returned

This could be going to a poetry night,
run by the Chelsea fringe;
listening to a night of poetry
on gardening.
I hear of Oxeye daisies languishing on prosaic lawns
or Dogwood as beacons in the winter light.
Of course we have a ****** baked pizza
and some angel making apricots and custard for her favourite charity,
ensuring the rescue of recluse poets
along the cobbled way.

i want to be the reason there is light inside your eyes again. the reason you worship the sunrise, instead of clinging red knuckled to the end of each dying day.

the sun doesn't shine in your world, and i wonder why. perhaps it's because you choose to write all your poems in the clouds.

Here we dilute ourselves into many
Things to stop our world
In the middle of its course:

Your skies are caught in dreams,
You bloom only flowers you recognize.
It hides the truth between
Your ears,
It hides the selfishness of your poetry,
The sighs of life in your grey solitude,
Your tongues are thirsting for something,
And you have become a pop cultural
Verse of repetition,
And the world will catch you
From behind your skies,
You can no longer hide in your abyss.
  
   And to state what I mean unpoetical,
   I see the hate rising in a tide,
   The world I know ignored in this forum
   Of intelligence, hate gaining tide.
   Of people ignoring the bigger picture,
   Where are you?
   I see nothing of the tsunami that
   Has overtaken the country here
   In this place where poetry and political
   Topics mesh more than you know,
   This is your voice,
   I implore you to change your flow.
   We live beneath this destiny,
    Beautiful Earth,
    But if we stop our words,
    Are our words even of worth?