I fashioned myself a dress of black lace;
Dark and elegant, epitome of grace;
Soft on my skin, caress like a lover's,
My comfort, my design, a haven of covers.

They called it macabre - filled them with unease;
Dangerous, they said, termed it a disease.
And yes, I'm unwell, but darkness is my veil -
A reprieve from hell, solace without fail.
I am the tailor, the sculptor of shadows,
The reaper of melancholy my art sows.
And yes, it is odd, fragile, morose -
The marble thorns of an obsidian rose.

The judging whispers that follow in my wake,
Can't comprehend I do this for my sake:
The sharp edges they call jarring and cold -
They are my palace, impenetrable stronghold.

Where others see emptiness, I notice lace,
The gossamer threads of a misty embrace;
They are but blind to the kingdom of nothing,
Only see moats, and wall canons jutting.
My castle of ghosts, the court I control,
Those remain hidden, deep in my soul.
The siren song, my foggy lullaby,
The velvety clouds on which my thoughts lie.
It is morphium, made in my mind
Embroidered dullness only I can find.
The words bounce off my protective bubble,
Your bombs shatter into a gray rubble.
I blow it away, along with my fears,
I got good at this, during the years.

Give me some credit, I am no fool,
Where others would drown, I can rule;
I know not to freeze, when water's too cool,
The fire you'd burn in, I use as fuel.

Yes, it's a thin line, I know it best,
But I'm a trapeze-artist, can pass the test;
A veteran of trade, the air is my nest,
I've learned to live without getting rest.

And I know my limits, how far I can press,
Worry you not, I've survived on much less.
I'm not glass, disperse your concerns,
If need be, the lace to razor wire turns.

Two a.m. and it hits me like a freight train -
The realisation that I'm never letting go,
You're too familiar, too engrained in brain,
My highest high and my lowest low.

In every whisper, gasp, and sigh,
You're boiling in my blood,
Far away and yet close by,
My senses drown in your flood.
My avalanche, my hurricane,
my natural disaster,
My shelter from the pelting rain,
Machine-gun pulse racing faster.

A spectre, haunting, never gone,
Your imprint ever by my side,
Knight and bishop to my pawn,
Commandment that a must abide.

And every new experience,
Every wayward thought –
Shadowed by the remembrance –
Fights what can't be fought.
Each new one I compare to yours,
Forever my default script.
A room without windows or doors,
This heartache is my crypt.

You never knew and never will,
Just how deep I buried
The memory I couldn't ****,
In my soul seared and carried.
A keepsake, invisible brand,
Bittersweet reminder
Of doomed castles in the sand,
Love poems in a tear-streaked binder.

A full Moon on the horizon of a powder-blue sky

The gentle breeze of Dawn passes me by,

caressing my cheeks like a lost lover,

soft as the clouds which in the distance hover.


I turn around, my back to the Moon:

the melody of daybreak begins its silent tune.

The first gossamer threads of Dawn's embrace,

cobwebs of brightness, Light made of lace.


A lonely bird towards the Moon flies,

hoping in vain to stop its goodbyes;

and my romantic soul melancholically sighs,

attempting to imprint the image in my eyes.


As the sunrise ripens, a celestial fruit,

it robs the lunar ambience, grabbing its loot.

And it basks in the riches that it slowly steals,

in brilliant ombre shades, as the Moon - defeated - reels.


The night's companion quietly fades,

ethereal pallor on now greyish shades;

no more powder-blue, grey turns to white -

it's the bed of clouds, prepared for the nightlight.


You've done your job, illuminating the way,

to travellers and dreamers, lest they go astray;

Rest for a while, take a little break,

until Sun retreats - then you can awake'.


The Poets' Lamp, nocturnal glow,

you'll shine again, with stars in tow.

I stand in a dessert without a single dune
- just flat sand as far as the eye can see,
And high above me: an unreachable Moon,
silently shining its silver on me.

Too distant for me to hear,
- but I know it sings
A soft lullaby about fear,
And sorrow, and broken wings.

So I keep walking, further still,
Through this nothingness of sand,
An emptiness I cannot fill,
I wish for a helping hand.

But there is none, and anyway
A helping hand I couldn't use:
I alone must walk this way,
Stand and win, or fall and lose.

A whisper from above and far
Tells me I'll be home soon;
I need no guiding star -
I have a guiding Moon.

A quiet, calm, serene place,

contrast with my heart's pace.

Gently slipping into silence,

just like plush, soft and dense.


The smell of books my spirit sedates,

new or old, they are the gates

of my comfort castle, made of words,

where pages fly instead of birds.


Safe and warm, paper and pen,

I can write, this is my zen.

For paper puts up with a lot,

every line, curve and dot;

with each word I lay on the page,

I'm one step outside the cage;

Outside myself, this prison of mine,

the chaos spills into written line.


Away from problems, light and free,

peace at last, in the library.

My gaze flickering across this landscape divine -

a whirlwind of sentiments unfolds.

Yet a single word echoes across my mind:

mine, mine, mine.


These hills, these trees, the distant shore,

as sure as the breeze caressing the steeple:

they are part of me, and more -

I am at home, safe, with my people.


I feel it, I know it, the comfort it sings -

whispers of safety, a lullaby to my broken wings:

familiar and gentle, deep in my bones,

the ancestry calling from ancient white stones.


Rosemary, lavender, olives, and fig trees,

they tell me of history, of proud victories;

of battles, of sadness, of stories untold,

the generations with lingering spirits of old.


This is my land, I belong here;

the soft hum of time; a smile and a tear.

The clouds over Antwerp (so far from home)
Caress the cathedral, barely brush the dome.
The sun is mild, and the wind soft,
Yet darker, boiling things come aloft.

Tendrils of remembrance, making me a liar –
I said I'd extinguish that treacherous fire.
A torch that shouldn't be, let alone be carried,
What should stay hidden, locked, and buried.
A flashback unbidden - your easy laughter -
There is no hope, not in the After.

The sky seems paper-thin, a fake screen of blue,
Threatening to peel back, revealing only you;
The cottony clouds, an illusion that will melt,
Spilling the intensity of all that I felt;
Still feel (oh god), and I can't disperse,
You are woven in the fabric of my universe.

I wonder if you're gazing, taking in the stars,
Or dark forests whose trees seem to me like bars;
A prison: I'm trapped, without being held,
My heart saw yours and decided to weld
Us together, but the alloy didn't match –
My forever, your bad batch.
Bleeding, I hold on to the damaged patch,
Too stupid to let go, too stupid to detach.

My life stands still, as chances pass through,
And all I see, all, is that they're not you.

*

There's fog now, heavy like lead -
I wonder if the veil seeped straight from my head;
Shrouding the world in a numb ache,
Distracting my thoughts, for sanity's sake.

And your presence pulses, a soft thrum of power,
Pitter-patter of rain, a ghost of a shower.
Just like a ghost, you're gone, but you're here,
Too far to touch, but to forget - too near.