He's slowly fading away
deeper into the dark void
He shouts my name, screaming, kicking and thrashing about,
arms outstretched towards me
I try to save him i really do
But he's falling deeper now
growing smaller and smaller by the second
His face blurs through my teary face
If he dies you will die with him, my subconscious screams at me
but it was to late,
When reality hit me.
When i came to realise that it was not he who was falling, but me.
Deeper and deeper i fall into the void, arms outstretched towards him..
although who is he?
He is no one but from my own fantasy
It was all imaginary
His face
His arms
His voice
His existence
Everything
The only thing that is real is that i'm falling deeper and deeper
I've lost my mind they told me,
I smile through my teary face, as i reach closer to death,
They were right, i did lose my mind, i listened to to mind and not my heart, so now ill pay the price;.....
With my life

sometimes,
often times,
i am cold.
there is snow within me and wild winds outside my door,
and i watch from the window while my crops wither.

i silence the sun.

he stands at my gate with nimble fingers and begs to be let in,
but i have always been a grove of shadows,
and he knows there is no space for him.

sometimes,
often times,
i am cold.

but other times,
spring finds me.
it lifts me up into its gentle arms and suddenly i am a field of clovers,
lucky,
rising up.
suddenly i am baby’s breath, i am pure,
i am a blooming hyacinth.

i am warm.

i know what a change in season feels like.

and i try to be loving.
but on the days when i have gotten up
and planted my seeds,
you are still tangled in thick black weeds and roots.
on the days when i am a rose,
you are the thorns,
and on the days when i grant the sun a chance to speak,
you take his tongue.

i know your pain; i have lived it.
but i will not give up my songbirds just because you are only left with crows.

i know what a change in season feels like,
but you are always winter.
and sometimes, i am spring.

so i will flourish.
and i am sorry.

(a.m.)

Gold and silver battle *****
torn from swords saddles and crosses
lying beneath a farmer's field
tributes to kings and bellicose gods.

Fierce birds of prey snakes fish and bears
framed in filigree geometry
guarded warriors' savage souls.
No mercy in Mercia.

Archeologists anthropologists
historians librarians
curators and consertvators
collect confer and classify
while I just try to connect.