My pen is dripping
from my heart and soul,
hoping to grow
a bit more beautiful
each day.

Death has pluck, you know, the like to sever love,
Then to show unannounced after the ruckus,
Even after so many no-shows at the theatre or club.
Death, indeed, is a tough sport, I am told,
Who plays cricket or some the sort,
Though no one really knows or asks,
“Wicket” does seem a word of choice.
But, for certain, a devil’s ouija hand
Of bridge whist, as sure as lives off
Pall Mall or Regent, as pipes a walk
In the London fog, here and there.
Yes, indeed, I would call him a chum
If he wasn’t such a cad.

So many pages
In this story
Unturned
A soft wind
Blows in the window
It whispers,
"Was never meant to be."
"Leave it alone..."
Time to heal, again
To wait and see,
Hope for better memories
Licking my wounds
Picking myself up
Heart hurt but not dead
It deserves love
Time to keep turning
To the next pages
And move forward
In this story
Called life

May my centre of my universe remain unbroken as the pressure of the galaxies ponder my existence
May my soul however torn be stitched back together with the thread of time and needle of course
May my faith in humanity and humility be constantly tested keeping my thoughts in one place and on a straight road
May the water in my blood flow back too the sea as the earth soaks up what’s left of me
May the oxygen I’ve carelessly breathed become the last thing left of me
And may my gods feel mighty but small as my demons become as equal too their rank.
I’m only but a human in this endless existence, I’m only but one star in the sky, I am nothing more than strands of an ancient past and no more than the sun which brings us life.