Wandering paths ask for a dying cloud-drought
One black with the heart of darkness, devout.
A blooming earthly sunrise follows a fountain
and walks with her vices, talking to a mountain
Hope of finding you there, with bitter mnemonic
standing restless, alone in uncommon bucolic.

She proceeds to see with a call for rain
as fog blankets us, sunlight slowly wanes.
Lost in haze, could of sworn water fell genuine,
closing eyes swallow you whole, the medicine.

Rebirthed into cold waters,
with saint Sebastian's arrows falling on our foreheads,
leaving a penitent blood dripped on my lips. You kissed it off me like it was honey.
I wanna meet you again on a desolate hillside,
with a punctured bicycle
without a Salford lad narrative.

Splitting my lip,
on your ivory messages of total control
and I love it.


I want to ******* while you're wearing figure skates
until marble floors grind down to Henry Moores.
You are paradise, found.
Dante's balming embrace.
It was a bright and soothing daytime.
You were ticking the right boxes so often that pencil went through paper and stained my knee with graphite while I was left figuring out a composition,
of a portrait of the artist as a young fan of your beauty.  
as we fell lips-first and made head on collisions look like speedbumps.

The rain approaches fast, pencil is slight,
and I leave words quick with flight
I feel speckled kisses on my cold neck
Far up in this tender rose garden trek,
staring over abyss, sudden with bottles
upwards is skyline, beautiful and mottled.

Trodden and toxic with heavenly waters, this
the murkiest of hearts that badly needs dialysis
Rupturing them clean, like morning's fresh shower.
Across tables, drink affection acted out in bliss
With ice in the glass and garnished with flowers,
and trade all a black forest could have to behold,
For that glance so sincere, and a hand to hold.

In the beguiling romance of a flower
as it grows like lichens up a tower
A melancholic thought does rise,
born deep into the grey-green eyes
of a boy, who's song he forgot how to play.
So alone he sits, indoors all day.
The thought itself does manifest
into homesickness of the family crest
a malady of ferocious discord
from into which the boy had been born,
It was not an affliction that is caught.
Dreaming of life, this boy is from the north.

All of my spite leaves these thin pages blank
Malicious intent and hope that a boat could of sank.
With walkers in two's surrounding the center
The contemplation of craters will always surrender
To this, my last heartless letter of prose
and my disgusting apparitions of Emily Rose.

An endless barrage of barges once were,
yet now seek less, and imitate scourge
upon a fervent wasteland ruffled with wind
across this river we died for our sins.

Once a bookshelf sat in an empty room
with anticipation of a groom
waiting and looking across the barren straight,
to find no more than flotsam at its wake.

In the days of home a literary gem appears
and a private conclusion seems to ever near,
but with one last fire extinguished by wind
across this river I died for my sins.