A baby cries
and
A mother sighs
so
A belief dies
but
A husband lies
~
A teenager tries
between
A ****** thighs
whilst
A demon terrifies
yet
A tablet nullifies
lying
A politician decries
innocently
A child catches fireflies
~
A hater will despise
forever
A Vicar will eulogise
religiously
And life will never apologise.

I saw you standing at my door, looking like you did before,
before you went away.
Unkempt hair, lazy grin, a dimple in your chin
"Can I come in?" Your smile as slick as sin and I wanted to give in.
I held the door, held my breath, held the image of your face.
Returned your smile, and said one word,
"No".
I started to close the door, you started forward and stopped,
was it my face, or yours looking back at you that startled you?
Either way,
I let him close the door for mummy.

I gave you up to see the difference a month without poetic words would be.
The truth is this, many images thoughts and musings went to die in a sea of letters, crying to be saved.
Cruel, though the exercise was, in denial I found a truth,
words are a doorway to understanding and acceptance.
Words truly are a universal bonding.
Unlike a pill repeated every four hours, words need to be taken continuously.
This I found was quite sublime, surreal and sensuous,
the addiction to sounds in words,
the addiction to vowels and consonants,
the addiction.
On holiday I read the in flight magazine and pictured myself in the basket weaving scene!
I sat and made a rhyme out of the ingredients list on a bottle of HP sauce.
My madness continued, with a limerick in the supermarket,
but they were not written down and they faded away like ink on a parchment.
So, gingerly I have returned to the sea of words to swim and describe the view from shore.
Before my addiction to words leads me to carve in my soft skin;
"Lexicographer is Legion"
"Lexicography is King"

Stamp your foot in the dust of time,
all that remains is a print, a memory.
Some of us stamp harder, the imprint is clearer.
Their names remembered, their deeds become history.
Their print is set, stuck in time.

Those that softly tread leave a fonder copy in the dust,
but like all faint threads they fade from memory.
Tender footprints imprint on the heart,
their tread copying the rhythm of the owners heart.
Their print is set, stuck in time, forever entwined.

When did I become a notch?
When did I become a number?
When did I not matter?
When did I become the joke?
When did I deserve that blow?
When did I stop crying?
When did I lose faith in you?
When did I disappear?