The egg hatches

"No, Stop!"
I cry, for the first time
nature is trying to change
me
into an ugly old man
hair here there and everywhere
tired eyes
Alas, my mind wants to go on
and its a price
we all pay
so get ******* on with it
I'm having a tweezers day.

A sunrises itches towards the horizon
the beholder begs bygones
for this day to be different
to change
anything new feels unbearably strange
i can only
scratch
the frustration
that bubbles to rage
each ray of light
becomes
a bar in the cage
all i feel
is the craving
& desire
in my face

The sunset reveals true being
the beholder starts fleeing
i can't bear to confront it
my soul
i'd rather chase the horizon and see where it goes
get lost
in the spectrum
as clouds turn
rose gold
as the colours
delve deeper
the world
becomes
cold
but i'm sweating
and shifting
my bones
growing old

We carry with us our memories and our scars,
strewn across our beings like the clear night is, with stars
and like sailors in the wilderness, they give us a sense of who we are,
which direction we are going, where we came from and how far.

Drops in the ocean, we reach out for our anchor,
that thread that ties us to ourselves, our idioms and our rancour
but when the storm clouds gather on the night of the new moon
I tie myself to the mast, submissive to the jostling gloom.

I catch a glimpse through Lightning bolts, the darks fiery reprieve,
those scarry looming shadows of all the souls whom had to leave,
I'm stunned, abandoned to the whim of whipping waves,
on the tide of all those memories that have formed how I behave.

This is my new scar, but it's not one bourne from pain,
it's one that can sense the morning after midnight's rampant rain,
a mountain emerging from the ocean, to make it's mark in air,
before the wind comes round a-roaring and sinks it without a care.

I still think to call you sometimes
& the thought gets stuck
in my throat.
The pressure builds
and a tear breaks loose,
like your single note,
tattooed on the back of my hand.

I still hear your melody, softly,
as it joins the symphony
in my head;
it breaks free onto this page,
turns into this poem
of Love & Loss
instead.

The building they lived in,
called home,
became their tomb,
became the weapon that broke
their bone,
took their lives.

But their stories have to
survive,
This City won't let you forget
about those
you were meant to protect.

I was actually looking for a room
but found myself
on the fiery streets
CRS batting the flames
as politicians took their seats,
business as usual
but the people stood in refusal
Feminists Familes and BlackBlok
Yellow Jackets Housing Groups
round the clock
only the holiday period
could douse the fires
and I went back to mother
the pressure smothered

How long is your attention?
Remember: this is a poem for the dead

For those who were crushed as they slept in their bed

Merry ******* Christmas
instead.