I think I will go to the sea and listen for a while
to the roar of dark ill tempered waves and ravenous black backed gulls , ceaseless circling gods who scan the beach, hopeful in search of any offerings given, trying to outdo the wind with their endless calling

I think I will go to the sea and watch the sky,
the shifting clouds a pencil sketch as yet unfinished,
a symphony of graphite  grey and mellow umber tones,
smoothed beneath some restless artists hand

I think I will go to the sea, to feel the wind on my ears
the sharp sting of blowing sand, frozen skin nettles
as I shrink into my scarf, a futile knitted bastion against such savage elements

I think I will go to the sea, but not today!

The picture for ten mirrors my debut role:
Innkeeper.
Granted, a step up from shepherd
or heaven forbid, a cloud,
but in hindsight, lustily singing
about being an opportunistic
slum landlord
seems an artistic risk

The sides of the bathtub
Rise up like castle walls
Keeping me safe and
Allowing me to ignore
The world outside of them
My small safe haven
My fortress of solitude
A place where I can
Simply be in existence
But not taking up space

Play me a tune with the bluest of notes
Sing me the words in your heart
Bring me to tears with the lilt in your voice
bury me deep in your art.

'Neath a blanket of stars with your sad guitar
Courting the moon in her prime
the simplest of gifts you bestow to her glow
A kiss in D minor, sublime.

Blindly into the black
Sensations muted
this patient
impatient, in-patient
writhes with silence
infested with love
yet tempted by the void.
Seeing all.
Feeling none.
Numb.
A state of delusion beckons
Serotonin downers
melancholy malaise.
Survival is key.

Silent codes
solemnly whispered
halt the silent scream
burning in the throats
of stronger men than I,
who care to remember
days free from the abyss.

souls reckon amongst scrolls
of all that is lost.
I find myself adrift
on strange tides
time no longer a concept,
brings a primal urge to destroy.
Sanity now a hopeful myth
Pounds at my brow
with circadian flow
banishing emotion to vessels unseen.

The ouroboros of eight,
mouth full, speaks forever
of doors and portals cautiously opened
from times past when scared eyes
scoured woodlands for sacred evergreen
and feasted to last the dark,
through the missionary rewording of the same,
to now, the snaking trucks
of the cola company

There is a place, It has no name
Easy to get to just the same
Everyone has one, a room of despair
You can knock on the door
If you no longer care
It's the end, I have had it
I’m glad that it’s done
Can’t be bothered to fight
And nobody won
Battled ourselves to the bitterest end
If anything’s left
You can keep it my friend
You keep on talking
But I am walking
Today
Get out of my life
Get out of my face
Apologise to an empty space!