This loving you does me no good,
Why won't Time help ease my pain?
In the late hours, memories gather 'round,
Smouldering ashes are stirred again

First an ember, and then a spark,
Soon the flames are leaping high,
Our symphony of love begins to play,
(I just can't let this music die)

Do you recall how we would hide
And love each other for hours?
That old shack by the lake would welcome us
With its fragrant jasmine bowers

Strange how the moon always found us,
He'd perch high above some tree,
Unfolding his rays of silver satin
He would cover us tenderly

Did you know how much I loved you?
Were my whispered vows too weak?
My heart and my soul are tormented now
By words I may have failed to speak

Nothing has changed since you left me,
I still love you, this I know,
(How can love that's been starved and abandoned
Still thrive and continue to grow?)

As darkness peers through my window,
I miss you more than I should,
It's taken me much too long to admit
This loving you does me no good

I knew you before you became such a major ****.
Back in the days before your morals ceased to work.
I knew you as a loud-mouthed ****** spoiled little boy
Who always acted as if he had never experienced joy.
Your posture always seemed to rotate back to whining
Like none of your black clouds had amy silver linings.

You gather around you sycophants
Who tell you that you are right
And any sanity you might have had
Goes down without a fight.

Your sense of entitlement seemed to be boundless
And truth be told it now borders on pure madness.
You try hard to convince us that what you say is real
And any words to the contrary is just what we feel
But not related to reality as you say it has to be.
Thus statements you make have turned into villainy.

You promised to make America great again
When it already was the home of free men.
Now you plan to end all that by simply selling out
To those that pay you well and prove yourself a lout.
There seems to be nobody much inside that lumpy suit.
All you seem to have is a cheap tin horn to toot.

You gather around you sycophants
Who tell you that you are right
And any sanity you might have had
Goes down without a fight.

Flesh rots.
We forgot
the truth,
but you
try not to
think about it.

Getting by
is busy work
that keeps us
distracted from
what really hurts,

A nine to five,
a family unit,
a wife a child,
a job to go to.

I don’t want to
but I have to
remind you.

It is made of
wood and metal
fancy folded fabric
full of regret
and stiffness,
of roads not taken
parting paths
forgotten
with people
who got
lost on them.

You constantly
forget this
so, I have to remind you
to appreciate its
opposite.

Till, you take your turn
to get eaten or burnt
by your ******* coffin.

I was sad  so sad
To see you go
Sad to hear
That whistle blow

I saw you sadly to the train
Knowing I'd never see you again

Another Lost love
Another Lost love
No farewell kiss
No tender hug
Just a heart of pain
And a waiting train

Lost Love Lost Love
Love Lost Lost Love

We hadn't long together
We changed just like the weather

As your train speeds away
There's nothing more to say

Another Lost love
Another Lost love
No farewell kiss
No tender hug
Just a heart of pain
And a waiting train

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere. UK  2017.

Being on the edge, where light fades greyly into dark,
Already you speak in echoes,
Your words from somewhere lost within you.
If I touch the veil of your fragile skin
Would I be touching you?
Although our touch to me still says “love”
When helping you from your chair or just holding you steady,
The Earth no longer firm beneath your feet.

Is my voice confused amongst others
In a kaleidoscope of utterances?
I’m not sure who makes more sense of this, you or I?
A bird that can no longer fly gasps quivering on the ledge,
Its heart a barely visible beat.
And I am the child again, behind the window,
Watching until it passes, its song
Carried away on the wings of the air.

Because I have loved you,
You are here.
Because over you I have bled and cried
And fought frustration and anger deep inside
You are here.
You are part of the fabric of my world,
A bright-coloured thread to my weave.
In body and soul, you are part of me.

Beware the modern mindfulness merchants
They miss the mark
They make you meditate on the extreme of existence
Cementing your psychosis

At the end of their day you’ll be far from the middle way
Contemplating waves instead of the sea
Making an inventory of things in a dream
Following their ‘Way’ you will never be free

Holy men, offended
By their fables
Wish to overturn
The temple tables

Sean Hunt  Feb 2017