When you are a musician
you have every songbird and melody.
When you are a philosopher
you have every question like clockwork.
When you are an artist
you hold every delicate stride and stroke in your soul.
When you are a poet
you have every avidity with words.

When you are a person,
what do you have?

Where am I
when you're
not here
but lost
in empty space,
wishing the time
would just
run, run away
then stop
dead still
to catch
it's breath
as soon as
I saw
your face.

Dread is a disease
most unkind, and
my guts riddled with it
whilst walking down those
narrow corridors for the
very first time.

In fact, those feelings
didn't drop until I was
stood out amongst the
spitting rain under
grey spring skies,
half enjoying a
cigarette that my
nervous body had
searched for.

A lad came to me
with cuts and bruises
decorating an otherwise
friendly face, with
an escort to keep
him stood up straight.

Before we
even shook hands
you made sure I wasn't
going to be alone upon
my first evening there.

There is only so much
handshaking you can
do until you realise that
no one actually cares
how you're doing or
what your name is
until your reports
have landed on their
desk once or twice.

But you, you cared
for a stranger before
you even know their
name. I knew from
then that you were
the real deal, but
I suppose the blood
splatter of chemicals
rotting away your liver
had dampened a
clean sheet.  

I was sad to hear
you took your own
life.

Maybe one day we
can go for that
drink

and I'll tell
you that I
learned from
you and all
this sadness.

I am the cascade rain
of chivalrous knights
and bubbling veins.

The gap you mind
and overstep,
The mind that’s gapped
without repent.

Yet the lake reflects a smile
and bellows out broadly
in the broken streams of Nile
in the thoughts of this, a while.