this beautiful wilderness
it will **** you
unflinching
wild waters raging higher in an instant
clouding your vision
til your gone
compost for those meadow flowers
no longer beautiful
unbeheld

summer descent
of a rocky lakeland path
astride a lively river,
   flowing low
with its winter underbelly exposed
tumbling down
meandering round
expansive sheets of smooth sun-dried stone,
which yearn for the touch of human skin.

cool, soda water pool,
memory of winter ice
tired feet, enveloped,
drink as they dangle in.

You live a different life to me.
You queue to cross a mountainous sea, under stars you struggle to believe in.

I roll out of a calm bed, hungry, and without a lifejacket, tipped over by turbulent thoughts.
The electric light illuminates my fridge (the stars are long forgotten)
and that hum keeps me from sleep.

Perhaps we can ally, you and I,
so you might make a midnight meal one day,
and worry about stagnation.
Perhaps we could gaze into the stars of each other’s soul.

Perhaps it is you, faceless shadow,
inhabiting the blind spot of my mind’s eye.
Perhaps it is you that wakes me.
Perhaps it is you in the dark that I must hold up a candle to.
Perhaps you are a part of me, and I am as yet un-whole.
Perhaps the Earthly distance gives us a mask to wear,
with TVs where the eyes should be.

Many faces, an illusion of separation, one soul
Won’t you help me to help you,
won't you help me?

I was visited by an Angel,
who knew the way.
But she flew my bed,
ere break of day.

And as the sun illuminates my eyes,
I see farther,
but feel less wise.
Imagined perfection,
meets demise,
A fading image,
Of the night.

But yet this sun,
Is the father of my life.

Amidst all the hustle and bustle of the biggest city in the world.
Amidst all the turmoil of rooms being booked to make the most efficient use of time and space.
This place got overlooked.

I'm in an empty classroom,
Alone.

The empty chairs,
A quiet reminder,
This place is used to more.
But I'm in an empty classroom,
And my thoughts are my own.

I feel illicit.
And excited.
And inspired.
I feel like becoming, the people I admire.

The space is defiantly alive,
There's new stacks of papers each night.
I feel in touch with the beauty of society,
But safe from its vice.
I barricade myself behind battlements of books.

My presence will almost certainly go undetected,
No one will notice the slight shift in the desks and chairs.
But I feel connected.
There is a shared spirit, that lives in the air.

I breath in the ghosts of the day time,
Their raucous noise nothing but a whisper, now.
I don't dislike those ghosts,
I'm just thankful for this time to play alone with the possibility
Of creation.

Away from idle chitterlings.
Their whispering ghosts make me relish this stolen time all the more.
I've got until the sun sinks, sinks, sinks into the deep dark.
I've got a candle, I've got my heart.
until sunrise.

And hopefully someday,
someone will feel,
In the midst of their new delight
The spirit of
the ghost of night.

I'm in an empty class,
Alone,
In the spaces left over,
I feel at home.

How am I scared of a memory,
echoing through rusty pipes,
with other echoes, lost in time,
deep in the *****, deep in my mind,
leaving fresh scars in the metal on each pass
through dented coils in a spiral
closing in upon my heart?

This echo doesn't fade,
it climbs.

Now swarming buzzes fly on high,
one thousand wings as black as night,
until that dark, chaotic sound
spills forth into the quiet chapel of my future.

Thunder clouds
and heavy air,
draw blackout blinds on stained glass,
as they pass,
as they pass.
Will they pass?
 
Which phantom fingers play these keys,
as I kneel at the fragile alter of existence?
How am I scared
of a memory?

Thunder shakes the very foundations,
A primal pagan invader,
Shivering my bones as I tremble and cover my head.
Lightening illuminates the wings of dread.

I pray that thunder wakes me;
wakes the one who plays the keys,
I pray that I scream,
I pray that I scream
I pray the pain will break this dream.



So then through pain and tears comes rain;
the *****'s pipes begin to spray.
Streaming rivulets wash down black stone,
through cracked tiles,
pulling dark clouds
to the depths of the ground.



And now, a harmony of mist
hangs colours in the air
light tumbles lazily,
soaring to vaulted ceilings,
brushing my hand,
blessing cracked tiles with ****** grass.

Petals serenade
silent beams of sun,
as they come,
as they come.
They will come.

I lay at peace
in this warm dawn sun.
Birds sing of love
before battle is begun.

Perfectly held
cocooned by folds of land
in the life line
of a universal hand.

But death mounts
the horizon with the sun;
violence, blood rises,
it will be begun.

I throw off the warmth,
of my bundled feather down;
kissed by a cool breeze
as I cast my gaze around.

Terror rains
from the sky on either side
with no escape
from a surging tide.

. 

But yet, and yet, a bird still sings his love;
harmony, as if he will find it.
And there's a song in my heart,
but I will die behind it.

I will fight,
and I will fight,
so that I might live to find it.