He has become a poet recently. He could
not believe it.  The pen he had used all
these years had only given words...
and structure. Form and flow. Rhythm
and rhyme.

But the Evening whispers things.  Cruel
truths, only he can understand.

'You are not a writer!' she whispers in
a current which almost deafens his spirit. 'Look at all you have accomplished.
Your pen writes life, not imagined folly'.

His soul departs from his body in an
attempt to flee this truth but the evening
grasps it by the fingers and smiles.

She disappears and in the moments
after...  her voice in his ears.

'You are the flow of the universe. Be like
those before.  Be like the greats ones
who knew no boundaries'.

So he picks up his dagger and cuts open
his finger. Dipping his quill into the
blood he looks at the open air around
him. As he writes on the wind... the world
begins anew.

A proper view of life. Do we see what is just in front of us? Or do we see beyond it? Open the eyes of our spirit. See a world average writers, even good writers,  can never even hope to glimpse.

What makes a true poet? To see a sunset. To view it as a whole. To know it. To see the colours. Then to forget the all they see and write what lies within. Beyond eyesight. Beyond belief. Beyond even imagination. That is a poet. And there are not many of us left

Love not the taint of ladies of the night.
Their barren hearts intoxicate the
purest of faces, drowning courage
behind the lusts of false need.

Love not the corruption of the wages.
In life, desired.  In truth... a downfall
of the senses,  burdened by a murky
wave of greed and always more.

Love not the insistence of the glory.
A hollow shape. Not hallowed as some
believe,  but bereft.  Lacking a centre
of moral. A judgemental state of fear.

Remain empty. Remain a jug to be filled.
A *** to be planted. A trough to be doused
with nourishing, life giving water.
A dark room waiting for a single torch.

Remain chained. Remain imprisoned.
Become yourself in ******* then live
free of the lack of uncontrolled self tyranny.
Become yourself. No chains. A truth of life.

A true story about a woman I love more than anything in the world.
...
The morning brings fresh waves of pain and truth. An agony burned into her skin as surely as the memory of the blanket which moved away from her small body.

Oh the shame.  The awful pain and knowledge that her once beautiful, determined, hazel eyesnowheld only the cold aftermath of betrayal and corruption.

Memories are a powerful awakening.
The night.  The terror.  The hopes of the future. Dreaming only of the delights of school and friends... then darkness of sleep.

Good dreams.  Good thoughts.  Then half awakened.  The sliding of the sheets.  The removal of outer garments.

She is awake now. Looking into his face.  A face she knows and loves.  But why?  There is a look she has never known before.  An urgent look this 7 year old girl will never understand.

Then hands moving.  Breath seeping like poisonous fumes into her nostrils and mouth. Hands touching.  Groping. Penetrating.

Then a voice.  She opens her eyes and sees a saviour.  Pulling this creature off her.

But too late. Too late. Her body is saved. No longer hurting.  No longer with a burning scent invading her senses.

But her mind is lost. Her beautiful mind full of the potential of innocence.  Stolen away at the hands of a lust filled beast.

A light taken from the world.

Augment to me, exotic Lady rise;
just let me touch your spirit in the flesh,
support my pole, and I’ll withdraw my eyes,
this pain ascends the heart like reformed mesh.

In sight this stalwart climb becomes your test,
you smile, you know that this will be your last,
and so you start your groove at my behest,
and minister your hands upon my mast.

In stride, now stroke, just play your graceful hands,
you do it like so many times before.
So wilful, to adhere to my demands,
just let me guide my ship into your shore.

And so I go to my deck and I steer,
while in the crow’s nest you shout land is near.

He is fearless but not brave.
A servant.  Not a slave.
A hater, not a hoper.
It's true.

Though he shines,  the light's shallow.
A barren lamplight so hollow.
A shadow destined to be shamed
and broken.

Take for instance his great burden.
Is this a cross?  Or a warden
of a state which is true...
Is it really?

But he holds together surely
as his spirit's dying, purely
just to show he can last
a year more.

Yet the taint of his upbringing
causes disease which starts singing
in his lungs and his heart
and his mind's eye.

So when he speaks,  close your please.
When he writes, look away and cease
from believing,  receiving
his lies and revolt

For a rebel has restarted,
fully now he has departed
and to hell with all others
who think he's not bad.

Unsmile that great happy structure.
Please frown, and he will fracture
all your hopes, to your kids
and your future.

And when you feel fully harrowed.
Just see his grave. His tombed barrow.
You will see him in your dreams.
As a shadow.

He holds a hand against her chest.
A softer place than cheek or back.
She sighs a moan, and breathes
a quickened breath.

'Lay here a while,  oh wifey true'
He says to her,  and she just smiles,
and down he places her and raises
up her wilful heart.

'Remember this one night of truth'
he sings as he looks at her shade.
She shivers, hoping for great heights.
But not yet.

Then closer still he moves until
it's all her vision sees and knows.
A moan escapes her lips... a pause
and then she shudders.

'Come to me my lord. Invade my peace.
Fill me with a new world made of us'.
In barest whispers she summons her
kingdom.

So he takes his dive,  summons up a ship
to break the walls, and take the flavoured leap.
So soon... she climbs a height before unknown.
He holds her. Sheltered from a storm