the grey man in the stars

tells me my greatest flaw is that
i am both a creator and a destroyer.

and as the rain takes hold,
the heaviness subsides.

i feel like i’m waiting on nuclear stardust,
to make it’s indiscriminate remark on all of
mankind.

there is something calming about
electric discharge embellishing the heavens,
acoustic echoes plaguing solitary eardrums.

humility, apathy, reality.
their colours run
becoming one...
a sort of dingy brown.

i’d always assumed the shade of the universe
would be a little more obscure.

sometimes...
chaos forces us to examine the ghosts
we thought we had banished to the coldness of a casket,

buried deep within cranial cemeteries,
one last time before they disintegrated
into the obscurities of our souls.

souls which have embarked on the journey
of infinite slumber.

it was no coincidence that the date of their departure,
aligned with the evening on which the

last living butterfly was impaled upon a piece of cardboard.

no longer a free being,
but a newly framed monument to a time
where the dead did not dance with the living.

August is a time for remorse.
A time for memories,
swelling up and distorting one's vision.
The ripeness of summer has withered
under the harsh July heat,
leaving behind a shriveled skeleton of time.

August is a time of love.
Emotions that have been accumulating through June,
subtly burst through the seams,
oblivious to the Goodbyes,
lurking right beyond the bend.

August is a time of forgotten promises,
of the misled see you later,
so often mumbled from lover's lips.
The scent of leaving lingers in the air,
creating a bitter aftertaste,
mixed with the flavor of devotion.
For, forever doesn't mix well with farewell.

August is a time of silence.
A time where a single word might betray a hidden feeling,
that is swelling up beyond the bend of casual conversation.

August is a time of noise.
Where "I love you" and "see you soon",
drown out the static of reality.
Where loneliness is judged by the tangible,
and everyone is afraid of being left.

August is a time of leaving.
Minutes become muddled with sentiment, moving like molasses,
dripping slowly into the oncoming hour,
overflowing with empty formalities.

August has no tolerance for long goodbyes;
which fester like an open wound in the middle of the day.
No, August is parting in silence,
with one's final words uttered in the darkness,
the moon and stars as the only witnesses.

August is a time of closure,
not the type seen in movies,
full of mundane routines.
Accompanied by tears and terse observations,
"Your coat appears worn thin, my dear".

August is the closure that comes in the middle of the night,
when it is least expected.
It is neither welcomed,
nor is it pushed aside.
It comes as easily as sleep,
nestling into the deepest corners of one's soul.

Sometimes August isn't recognized,
until December.
After it has faded into the hazy realm,
which all past months inhabit.
Its only legacy is etched upon our souls,
haunting our every thought,
in the most lovely way:

August is a time of growing up,
of forgotten forever's,
full of the sweetest intent.

You know what I mean when I say that it's strange
To come down from heaven and walk through a range
And serve as a target for all of your pain
You should know what I mean by now

                                            You know what I mean when I say that it's true
                                             I haven't found anyone who's close to you
                                             But I couldn't start looking because I'm a fool
                                             You should know what I mean by now

You know what I mean when I say that I'm tired
Of all of the cheats and the ****** and the liars
Yet I'll sit and roast with them above the fires
You should know what I mean by now

                                              You know what I mean when I say that I'm done
                                              And your little mind games have lost all their fun
                                              And I'm through with sitting here, I'd rather run
                                              You should know what I mean by now

I lift my eyes
Up from the dirt where I am standing
Up from the hurt that I've been handed
To the river where I find myself again
To the hands that offer me a second chance

You watched
me step from the dark
without a word
without a sound
just staring as I
stumbled so slowly
so close
so distant
but fingers could
still have reached
if your heart was in
them

instead

you filled the air
with silence
filled your head
with everything but
remembrance
eyes looking
not truly seeing
what clearly was lying
on top of my skin
really
no glass needed

but I had become
a part of something
you needed to
be forgotten
to move?
to live?

I was never told

and even now
only because I fell back
into the light
so close
so distant
your fingers slightly
stretched
but they lack
the warmth
that you had
traced on my skin
in permanent
marker

trails of smoke in the night sky
      where are we?
  the occasional glimmer of stars through the curtain
       it doesn't matter where
    each flower
       keep the pedal down
    a rainbow on your pillowcase
       *we are now.

1680

Sometimes with the Heart
Seldom with the Soul
Scarcer once with the Might
Few—love at all.

Glass is everywhere.
The empty road; between shrubs
And upturned wheelie bins.
It's in your hair, like dust
That sparkles slightly amidst the auburn highlights
And the blood from a **** above your
Left ear.

You can't hear so well,
All is ringing, squealing, high
And resonant above the sirens
And screams, the shop-keepers
Cursing the Gods, the
Church bells from another world
Calling out for dawn.

Oh! Take us away.
From these rivers of black,
These haggard drapes of
Bright lights and broken
Panes. This carpet
Made from discarded electrical goods,
Shoe boxes, wine bottles, and
Ash.

Who are they to do this?
To lay claim to all we have,
To lay waste to that
Which came before?
No fury from foreign lands, nor
Raging strife by nature's hands,
Has ever done what has been done.

The rain doesn't come;
Our summer is finally here,
And the skies are clear.
No clouds in sight, save for
Rolling colossi of acrid smoke. Flames
Pointing accusing fingers at an uncaring sky,
As England burns.