If I could paint you a picture of what you do for me,
Millions of miles away,
It'd be you on a mountain top standing so clean as a King
At the bottom of that mountain,
Crawling through mud and rock,
Scraped and bruised all over trying to get to the top,
To reveal my mangled and broken soul

But..

With every broken nail and pull up, another scar fades...

Even at my age,
I see mountainous lands in the sky,
Languishing among towering clouds,
A lofty empire, lost kingdoms,
Perhaps a strange magical realm,
Thriving with dwarves and giants,
Maidens in towers awaiting rescue,
Where lone horse warriors wander,
Maybe observing us, far below.

Must be a poetic creative thing,
Or simply the child deep within,
Viewing through the eyes of the man,
Dreaming ancient days of long ago,
When the child yearned to be grown,
To know all there is to know,
Never appreciating escapism,
The chance to drift within time,
Ponder upon distant, aerial, worlds.

Or maybe I’m just a dreamer,
That and nothing more, hmm,
Telling myself, I am a poet,
A procrastinating creative spirit,
In love with the trappings of art,
The child asleep within wisdom,
Languishing among towering clouds,
I see mountainous lands in the sky,
Even at my age.

©Paul M Chafer 2015

It was shallow water, rippling
a watery moon quivering
on the surface seen
It was night fire
burning water into steam
gray smoke screened
It was willful drowning
upon a lily bed of lies
parched a wilted garden
slowly withers, dies

you used to write the words that would take
my breath away and they
are engraved in my skin with a kind of ink that
keeps me alive and you used to call me a ghost because
of my pale skin and you would write metaphors
just on that alone
you still do actually, but now that you write about her
i find that your poems half as good