It is a four wheeled vehicle,
With sharp edges and soft seats,
Turning perpetually until the gas runs low,
The lights dim,
And the ceiling droops in despair.

Hands trace steamed windows,
Drawing stick figures and love hearts in the snow swept smoke,
Dotting 'i's in elegant script,
Tracing 'I love you' with insincere infatuation,
Puffing breath against the window...

So the hand-print of the one you love remains.

Cherry Blossoms bloom,
Fleeting and beautiful, gliding gently from the branches,
Pink curls softly drifting to the ground,
Velvet and salmon as they fall, clean and soft,
Only to land in muddied puddles.

They dance in the subtle moonlight,
Chins and smiles twirling with their hands,
Eyes sparkling with rain and tears,
Lips wetted from midnight kisses,
Fingers warm from interlaced palms and digits.

Summer mist pools around springtime hope,
Pulling large trees from the ground for them to walk under,
Cooing birds into life, spilling water down streams and into softly traced lips,
Shimmering under the surface,
A clearing of all that had been taken that Winter.

They part ways on a harsh Autumn's evening,
Leaves shedding like skin from the canopy,
Rain pounding with a bullet's finesse,
Puddles murky and grey from cigarette smoke,

Eyes dark and solemn.

“Goodbye my love”

She held out a dainty hand,
Long dainty thinned and perched fingers filtering sunlight,
Shadows danced across the ground, twirling in the evening rays,
She looked out upon the horizon,
Staring at the magnificence that was the sun.

She had spied it a thousand times,
A thousand mornings every morning,
Trying to find something beautiful in her broken world,
To see the orange glow bleed through the trees so gloriously,
And to try and remember it for when she fell.

This day had seemed impossible all those months before,
When she had drowned,
Toppled down, patted in mud and grime,
Looking up from the well,
Trying to see out of the darkness that had consumed her.

Back then only thoughts of change and time had sated her,
Had paused her rein of terror,
Of pounding thoughts upon her thin ***** skull,
Drumming upon it like a redundant beat,
So repetitive and meaningless.

Her stance bowed ever so slightly forward in defiance,
In the holding of her breath,
And she gazed out from the hill,
Out into the sunlight,
No longer with the heavy want to jump.

She had waited endlessly for this day,
For this torturous frightening day,
When she could finally smile with truth,
Eyes shining with hope,
And look upon a new dawn.

She had waited for the darkness to end,
It had blown away with a subtle and elegant wave of a hand,
Barely noticeable, but oh so delightful,
For she was now freed from the chains that held her down,
Even if she knew it would come back,
For now was enough.

Cheese,
What do you want from me?
You sticky mouldy piece of flavour,
Literal illness conjectured into 'food',
Don't try to fool me with your pretty wrappers,
Tied in a bow of plastic and laudable fashion,
Cheddar, so generic I can barely taste it,
Mozzarella, like plastic blobs of mucus I strive to avoid,
Parmazon, so snooty, hair tied back, eyes dark and elegant.

Cheese,
You are the devil,
Dressed in white and smelly creams,
Topped as some sort of ostentatious filler,
I hope you burn in that oven,
Hope your skin melts in agony,
Until you have sullied my lunch,
And I have reason to sneer and throw you away.

What self respecting food group has holes?

Its just abysmal.

Some hold curses on their tongues,
Tight with stiff and achy arms around their waists,
Hugging themselves until they can't breathe and can only smile,
Eyes twinkling in uncertain inane gestures.

They aspire to think that two colours means two perspectives,
Equal sight from varied shades,
One blue, soft like the ocean, a reflection of the darkened sky,
One green, the colour of ripe apples and fresh air.
They see the world through tinted glasses,
Not red from a rose, believing lands to be green and sunlit,
Nor ***** grey like blooming storm clouds, perishing thoughts of joy,
A tinge of green and blue, calm and chaos, forever entwined in ying and yang.

Anarchy reins as an agent of peace, twisted in its convolution,
The more laid waste the more spared for time to come,
Chaos sits on their throne, eyes sparkling with insight,
Clothes ablaze in a fury matched only by that of a grieving mother.
It is the only predisposition that the world shall change,
Colours ever moving and mixing on the canvas of life,
Beauty melding to disgust, hate twirling to love, more declining to less,
A world is not a world without father Chaos at the helm, steering ships into rocky harbours.

What's the point of a film with no explosion at the end?

You have been still for so long,
Too long,
Your muscles are stiff and unforgiving,
Heart slowed almost to a stop,
Eyes closed to keep them wet,
Throat parched and burning from the sun.

Your arms hang out as branches,
Catching rain and falling leaves as things drift down from the endless sky,
You see butterflies making nests in your hair,
Settling down on the flowers growing from the moss and dirt,
You can feel them, soft, delicate and leeching,
The pitter of their tiny feet on your brittle nose.

Your mind has drifted,
From today, to tomorrow, to hours, to galaxies far away,
Your heart beat is the only way to tell the time,
Night and day has abandoned you.
Friends and lost ancestors no longer visit your grave,
No longer plant flowers on your skin,
And you are alone and empty once more.

You stare,
Mesmerised,
With eyes that have not opened for years,
At the lone blue bird settled on your neck,
You wonder absently,
A buzzing at the back of your ears,
If the blue bird will hurt you,
You remember reading centuries ago that blue birds were carnivores,
Would you be baby food soon,
Would that be better than soft stone skin.

Its wings flutter with unearned grace,
As if it were born to fly,
And did not even have to try,
Like those people born happy,
With no trouble,
And you had thought they were only myths carved by wishers.
The bright stark blue clashes against your mossy green fingertips,
Its feathers ruffle in the faint wind you can no longer feel,
And the warmth of its beating heart makes tears pound at your eyelids.

You have not cried in millennia,
It seems,
But the bird is so beautiful.

Sunlight pours through open leaves above you,
The forest has grown heavy around you,
Rainfall no longer pools like icy seas around your toes,
The rain is eaten harshly by the soft soil,
A paradox of lift and drop, condense and fall,
You wonder if you have become part of the cycle,
Or if you are breaking it.

You can feel the stars watching you,
Burning bright suns spinning in infinity,
Shedding light upon darkness,
Even to your corner of the woods,
With solemn eyes and stiffened smiles,
They pity you,
For even they do not last for eternity.

The body sneers in hatred,
Girl, she is always hurting it,
Pulling it this way and that,
Cutting hair off like limbs,
Scratching marks into the functional skin,
Leaving the stomach empty for the cold to get in,
Pinching skin and chewing lips,
Girl makes the body look like a circus act,
A crudely drawn picture littered with cuts,
Face splotched with make up,
Girl is beautiful, the body can tell,
But Girl lies to herself,
And refuses to believe the truth in front of her,
Blandly pasted on her skin like a brand,
BEAUTIFUL, even the body can read it,
Scowling as the walls rumble in starvation,
Skin itches from melted candle wax,
And eyes burn from staring at the sun.

The sun is not as beautiful as Girl,
The body does not understand why she stares so long,
The only reason can be stupidity,
And Girl is not stupid,
No matter how many times she says she is,
The body knows the truth,
Sees the intelligence behind her eyes,
Curled despair around her wrists,
Trailing up her shoulders and through her hair,
Like searching hands,
The body can feel the phantom hands,
Scratching like pins on the skin,
Drawing blood with the ghostly presence,
The body does not remember the hands,
The body had healed from it.

Only Girl remembered,
And knew her reasoning,
For the flat torso and scratched skin.

He crunches fragile fingers on brittle panes,
Eyes wide and glassy, nose flaring at the smell of blood,
He tells himself he does not do it for the pain,
No, he begs, he does it for the colour.

A crimson dark red that he can find in nothing but blood,
He paints with it, large murals of torturous beauty,
Portraits of forgotten loves and most brutal enemies,
All traced with the gorgeous acrylic, eyes deep with the brutality of raw blood.

He is a criminal, an agent of deception under his own skin,
He is a cliché, forged from misperceptions and guilt he tries not to read into,
Dark hair falls in knots, thick with dried blood just like him,
Thick with blood, waiting to be dried.

He smells the metallic paint on his skin,
Tinged with iron and red rusted mistrust,
Unbelievable in its simplicity,
Blood, plain and simple, straight from the source.