Star Gazer:
Unlucky overlord from sydney australia. Named hidden agenda before.

We conversed in only poetry remember?

For once where the tyre swing hung on the tree
Now hangs a broken noose....

Remember?

Conor Blatchford:
I remember, for our poetic talk
Became our poetry
And I always did enjoy
The leisure of a pleasant memory

Star Gazer:
A pleasant memory twas,
But memories get forgotten,
But I do send applause,
For a memory unlike cotton.

Conor Blatchford:
Applause graciously accepted,
No roses are thrown but none needed
That memory was but a play, one of many
That in life will continually be seeded

Star Gazer:
Until uprooted without reason
Dangling onto what is left,
And heart plays traitor in treason,
And memory is but a theft.

Conor Blatchford:
True, memory is not quite the event
But tend and care for it like any plant
And it will grow into something fond
Something that becomes more real and less like a mask

Star Gazer:
Humans are attracted to masks,
Cruel facades are what we have known all our lives.

Conor Blatchford:
A façade makes life worthwhile
A display of grace and eloquent style
Hiding what we truly are
Is perfectly understandable, not in the least bizarre

Star Gazer:
But where is the line between imaginary and reality,
Feeding false hopes and liee to banality,
It is just one step closer to hell,
And one stop further from heaven as well

Conor Blatchford:
Heaven and Hell are concepts designed
To induce goodness and quell pride
For even though evil creates a social reject,
An old saying re-written: no-one is perfect

So how are we supposed to climb
The stairway to Heaven with imperfection in mind?
Wouldn't it be just easier to fall
Into the Hellhole that awaits us all?

He was a paraplegic,
Cursed to see the world from the height of a wheelchair.
He recognised a woman who loved him without care,
For his misfortune. The woman being quite strategic,
Always said at least you aren't a quadriplegic,
And that was what established them as a pair.
The mutual love and respect they both share,
Because even if he was handicapped she didn't see it.

She was blind,
An affliction through her whole life,
The scent of the rose that promised her, to be his wife,
And she didn't mind.
For something between the two connected them.

Ringing in my ears,
Shivering from fears,
It's setting in again,
Locked in a den,
The panic attack,
No more heart track.

When will my mind forget,
Or am I just not ready yet?

She was an artist, who drew me into her life.
The way she’d paint my name on her canvas.
The way she swept me away with every blank verse.

But one fact remained,

She drew me into her life only to smudge me into different shades,
Painted my name in watercolour as my name was smeared off the page,
And with every blank verse I fell, plummeting into an uncertain oblivion.

She was an artist,
Who got sick and tired of dead colours,
So she drew colours from broken hearts,
And bruised emotions.