I will edit my soul
with the colourless liquid
that escaped from the two overflooded doors
and stained page 255 on
the medical ethics section.

'Drop on the floor, drops.
Tear drops
never to return.'

A lullaby moaned
before hope runs out of
the small, plastic bottle.

Sirens. ‘Oxygen please’.

It was all in a dream,
that slowly fades, 
till it’s one last beat;
the final T wave.

The eyes of the soul
opened to a new light;
the real orbits could not
 believe, what I saw.

Now, I wish I never
gazed into that light.
Darkness swathes 
my soul, a repetition
of this vicious cycle.

Traffic lights. Red turns green.

The monitor music.
A distorted chime sound,
hidden under their vibrating vocal cords.

Last earthly stop.
I am in orbit.
Return of oxygen, electrolytes, body and soul to the progenitor.

Selene.

By the sea, I have been staring,
at your bright colours change.
Erythematous, murderous intentions of
a disease disseminating
on your surface.

The slow, penetrating anguish
tearing the guts,
a one-sided, disdained,
newborn sadness,
I am welcoming in my arms.

On the operating theatre of life
white and now dead moths,
stillborn butterflies
inside the flesh removed,
drowned themselves in a pool of blood.
They, an absurd joy
that never stood a chance
inside this cyanide prison.

Portals of loaned,
disillusioned happiness closed.
The liquid that raced turbulently
through my vessels, drained on a half-filled
with tears palette.

With menacing, impasto knife-like strokes
on the body
Morpheus painted the shadow-covered moon
with memories that refuse to be forgotten
from purulent, open wounds.
'Those worlds you will (never) see.
The people you will (never) meet' he said.

Soul chemicals eroding
the behemoth sky,
as the paint dries out.
Ashes of my Dreams (Not) Achieved,
astral remains;
everything I silently kept inside.

Sunken eyes, broken thoughts,
air with difficulty enters the lungs.
Dry mouth, lacrimation of no purpose,
the pillow full of nails  she is resting upon.

The body, a ship stricken by a wave war.
Slow disintegration,
remains are battling the seven seas of sorrow.

Like a painting  uncovered,
black sheets cover the rays of the sun
from the soul.

Resident of a lucid dream,
mumbling to the wind that blows
regrets down to the river
between Hypnos and the Underworld,
to carry a message to the hearts
with locked doors.

A message of no words
but incoherent perceptions,
lost unknown connections
and strangled hopes.