Come take a walk with me and satisfy an old woman’s dignity
by assuring her there are gentlemen still.
Take my hand and let me lean upon you as we move our bones
down Butterfly road.

Look

A dragonfly is lazily circling the pond, see how he catches the sun?
Like a stained glass window at sunset,
casting colours into the dim nave; lighting the unscrupulous knave
and his hyperbole

Listen

Silence can be heard young man, but first you must still your blood
Amplify the silence, deafen your passion
In return you’ll demystify the sirens lullabies and nullify lies
Whispered in sensual bedevilment.

Taste

Drink in this scene young man, the lazy end to summer
soon she’ll be chased and embraced by Autumn’s leaves
Raked away into a crisp pile
allowing regeneration to begin.

Feel

Young man, soon my walk with you will end
but you’ll carry on, up and around the bend
until you feel the chill air
and need to be somewhere warm.

Smell

Nothing evokes feelings like those known to the senses
The feel of your love as you hold them,
the sound of their heartbeat rushing in your ears
the heavy scent of *******.
The look of sated happiness in their eyes
and the taste of salty tears as they cry.

Yes, young man all things end.
This talk. This walk.
This summer. The butterfly.
*Termini

Slick with sweat your silhouette framed in cigarette smoke
I feel intense jealousy like a bayonet run through me
Just moments ago we were a duet,
until a crescendo made us still
Watching you take a drag, hair ruffled and stubble on your cheeks
Makes my heart skip, this image, this place and time are mine.

You turn and look at the crumpled sheets,
note our clothes in a heap
You stand and stare at me
Emotionless.
Passion has waned.
Reality is returned.

“Do you love me?” I ask
A hiss of, what impatience, annoyance? Sidles my way
Statue still you stand and glare
“I thought this was just an affair” a glib retort
“It is” my reply is spry on my dry lips

You move cat like to the bed and as you lower your head
Positioning for a kiss
I hear the question from him
“Do you love me?”
And with a practiced grin I lie.

I knew you’d be there without confirmation
I felt the tingle
I felt the sensation
I smelt your aftershave and
Without hesitation I condemned myself to damnation

I watched you stride down the nave
Watching you was a violation
A violation of my promise
To be faithful, honest and true
But, I can’t keep my pledge,not with you.

I quietly follow
Beyond the curtain I go
I sit and breathe deeply
You, Wood, and incense fill my heart
“Bless me Father for I have sinned. I'm in love with you”

Spring has sprung
Weeping cherry blossoms
Waiting to scatter
Like memory fragments
Upon the ground

Sad wistful blooms bleeding life
Beautiful mortality
Accepting of its volatility
Bursting into being
Destined to scatter

Blooming en masse like clouds
Accepting of karma
Accepting of blooming
Blooming as flowers of death
Exultant in scattering a beautiful death.

On a cold night look up at the street lights
Its reassuring glow dancing off the snow
Look at how the light so bright delights
The watchers down below.

But can you see the light as it shivers?
The light dancing in the winter cold
Crystal shards of ice, blue and white
Dance like whiskers round the light.

The ink on my nib has run dry.
The cursor is flashing, giving me the evil eye.
Shakespeare, Longfellow and even Poe; know.
Know the loneliness of a dry pen.
At least they were spared the "tic,tic,tic" of the accursed cursor.
Mockingly it baits my thinking, sending me round the bend.
Poe had a Raven send him mad, I've got a cursor.

(In computer user interfaces, a cursor is an indicator used to show the current position for user interaction on a computer monitor or other display device that will respond to input from a text input or pointing device. The mouse cursor is also called a pointer, owing to its resemblance in usage to a pointing stick.)

The curse of the cursor.
That's what I have, not a dry pen, but an impatient line blinking.
Always blinking. Does it go to sleep?
It's the refrigerator light of doom, you try to catch it unawares;
but NO.
It still blinks.

The line is long.
Am I in the right queue?
Why do they use those stretchy barriers?
Why does the queue next to me seem to be moving faster?
Security checks. Everywhere you go, look or turn, a security check.
Look at the cameras and the border control officials, do they have to queue?
Shuffle movement up ahead.
Tinny old time music playing on a loop.
How many times do I have to hear "The wheel of fortune"? It goes round, I get it. Unlike this **** line, it's not going straight, curved, zig zag or anywhere, I swear if Kay Starr doesn't shut up about that ******* wheel I'll staple her to one and roll her down a hill.
No, wait, she's dead, ******.
Wait, the line is moving, yes!
End of the queue coming up, oh look a poster "Anything to declare?"
Does boredom count?
If yes follow the red line,if no proceed through the green exit.
Yes, finally, green for me.
NO, I've nothing to declare, stop, take me back to the green exit.

The wheel of fortune goes spinning around
The music stops, a tinny voice is heard
"Welcome to purgatory. Your stay is dependent upon truth, honesty and atonement. Please conduct any queries or questions via your religious belief system and representatives"

Fifty shades of Grey was a movie I watched today.
I'd read the book so thought I'd take a look.
I wish I'd stayed away.

Deep down in the depths of my ****** veneer,
I hear my name.

Do I answer or just stay here nestled in the vapour of Lethe?
Oblivion has merits, concealment of self in still water.

Aimlessly, carelessly swirling in drowsy drug fuelled forgetfulness.
Before we die we drink this water and pass on unhindered.

Ties are undone, people and places, completely erased
to be reincarnated, entering flesh again.

My name again is called, and with this sound comes memories.
I want to stay on the shore of Lethe. But, no.

Selfishness pulls me back to sight and sound
I am dead amongst the living.

I
am
not
here.
Blank
spaces.
Ruinous
remnants.
**Completes
desolation.

To be free would be fine

But then we write a line

And we are tied to ink

As babies are by milk

Images dance behind eyelids

And words are formed, onto paper they slid

Slid through the ink to the nib of the pen

Not knowing when images and words are unbound again.

I've not been outside for 100 days.
100 days of self imprisonment,
like a bird in a cage, though the bird was forced,
I have sentenced myself.
I try to go out but the outside wins,
it whispers warnings on the wind, it rustles its rudeness in the trees leaves, it sends a crow to caw, telling me to close the door and stay in.

You reap what you sow,
even if that's only woe.