And nothing's the
SAME ANYMORE

And I'm losing it
I'm losing touch with myself

Because I lost touch with you.

You stopped writing me.
I looked for your words of love
But they were no where to be found.

Because I asked you to stop them.
Because I asked you.
I did.

But now they're gone.
And nothing is the
Same anymore.

Cats stuck to window sills as languid as the rolling hills and craggy like the rocky tors
sheep sleeping underneath a portcullis of a sky
as steel grey clouds disguised as prison bars soothe
them gently with the Lakeland lullaby

I saw no Viking
but I did see hikers by the score
up the scree
scrambling up the tor

being me,
I wondered
what you doing that for?

Boats across the lake
too much
Kendal mint cake
and your jaws ache
take the Lilliputian train
we're toddlers
toddling off again

Such fun.

......and this art is where we finally meet
the caricature of my subconscious played by my conscious self
pulled asunder the dark veil and shining light of truth
I emerge, no, pull back the tide of time and dreams are lived in the full light of day where no man before has trod. A poet and a friend hand in trusted hand stride forth across all the beauty and terror that lies within.
The art of being oneself on show to the world half hid from itself.

The night appeared in my imagination. He counted the time.
Then smiled, he wanted me to hide.
I saw him, clearly, put on his hands upon his straight face.
He took a rest in the shoulder of the tree. But, I puzzled like a flea.

When I caught my own breath, I could see the shadows of someone’s death.
I got tremble things on me. Suddenly, the place was so balmy.
“Are you ready, buddy?” the night shouted on me from distant.
I lost my answer, my soul, and even my own role.
“I will hit your back with a full sack of pretty facts”
The night said again, again. That made me eerie, then.
I’ve added so many eyes on my body.
Just in case, whenever he came and ***** my despicable memories.

Finally, I moved my body gently, cleaned every *****.
I planted myself behind the barrels, so faulty.
I composed myself and whispered like I was ready.
There would be no reality, maybe.

in this happy-deathday, I serve you a bowl of soup, because it’s really you
clay bowl, kidney-beans, vegetables, all thickened with dreary cream;
there is an opened-eyes fish, but definitely can’t cry
they all would float and spread out the smell of awry

the soup has its hot steam, but it is not wandering to ceiling,
it is coming to my neck, ******* my guilty, which I have none

seeing this soup makes me twisting my hair; complicated
I was a loner clown living in the wardrobe—then you gave me one unicycle
you took me out from the pile of clothes
away from cockroach which peeing my head gleefully
til I was starving: yes, I am starving sardonically

I glare the flame of your sincerity which flies away somewhere
I lost my fingers in the soup
while bacteria just sitting cross-legged on the left side

the soup remains sour
and I need something to add—to drag my tasty life again

exactly in this happy-deathday, I reinvite you, my honey
mixing a handful fine-ashes with this soup: because it’s really you
so, how does it taste?
dive deeper and fine how delicious your beyond
no more illness, no more madness, no more confusion of my demeanor