chest pain and it's getting harder to breathe
tornados hyperventilating through my lungs
ocean tides are rising
blurring out my vision
desert waves of heat burning up my skin
the rage of an amazonian fire
scalding my hopes and dreams
vertebrae line my spine like jagged mountain peaks
rips in my nail beds
the parting red sea
callous on my hands the way you were callous to me

In this lonely cave of mine 
miners mine the winding way
seeking glitter and gold
but filling lungs with dust and coal 
the walls are crumbling
like sugar snaps
that rot your teeth
for even trying to indulge 
I don’t deserve the toil
I pray my thoughts take the day shift
because I can’t afford overtime
and all these **** taxes
I feel like certain songs hold up walls better than beams
and hearts better than strings 
and minds better than skulls
and bodies better than spines
melodies pulse and sway
like flickering flames
they fill the darkest space with warm poetry
and alone, not lonely
I sleep tonight

Fresh after the rain
I hike in the woods.
The leaves are turning to
yellow yams, auburn brick, pumpkin pie.
The ground is wet and the wood is damp.
The leaves lay vibrant on their death bed.
I turn around.
I see through the spaces
fallen flowers,
departed shrubs,
vanished birds,
the trees that once protected my eyes from the placid lake.
The air is bright with mist.
The grey sky surrounds me.
The cold breeze comforts my skin,
and forgives my lungs.
I take it all in.
But the cold air can never forgive
the dying trees and life dissolved.
Others will pass by.
Leaves will crunch and crumble
under feet that won’t realize the forest decline.
The music to their ears will return each year.
But the crunch will fade.
Less trees, less leaves.
A Decrescendo,
A whisper.
Silence.

.
Snow drifts down
     laying a lawn cold sheet
across the frozen ground,
          creating art reliefs
like acid etching glass,
open space rolling and undulating,
in small hills and depressions,
     bedecked in a veil of white.
The silence is deafening,
quiet having been enjoyed
     and surpassed,
briefly punctuated by the call of a bird,
     A sharp whistle that shrieks
and attacks the silence.
The fresh smell of snowfall wafts up
     as it settles and glistens
in the light of silver moonbeams,
randomly peeping through clouds.
The taste of peace,
                     tranquility,
in the frigid air,
sends imagination soaring
from the desolation of isolation
to another time and place.
          The snow falls,
     falls,
in a relentless race for the ground,
               all is still,
               nothing stirs,
as the moor welcomes its quilt
and sleeps with a cold heart,
     dreaming,
                       of being kissed by the Sun.



© Pagan Paul (28/05/18)

I’m the hidden book,
Leather bound
Threads fraying
On the top shelf.
You like the paperbacks
And hardcovers,
Pretty titles
And modernity.
But please know
I’m collecting dust
and I deserve a chance.
Just this once,
Brush me off
And open my pages.
Read my story.
I promise I won’t leave you hanging.

Reality is the illusion of twinkling lights
flying on a jet plane
leaves of trees covering and uncovering
glimpses of peeking light
flicker on and off
from such great heights
surrounded by a halo
gleaming warmth through frosted glass
when you descend to the earth
a stagnant faint stream of light
illuminates streets
where working people lay
forgoing their dreams

leaves crunching under feet
at dusk, the sky dark blue
fading into a desolate, enveloping black
wind howling through the rustling leaves
faint owl hoots echo in the eerie silence
brushing thorns with fingertips
crimson red paints the soil
tip-toeing on branches across forest streams
like tightrope walkers
with a thousand feet below them
holding their breath
silhouettes bleed into the night
and so do I