Winter takes my breath away,
air thin like
like ragged strips of cloth
that rattle through my lungs
This sharp air lacks substance.
Our air is a heavy broth
that weighs on you
in every season.
Thick and life-giving
it fills you with warmth.
It is breathing rain and sunshine combined.
It feeds the all consuming green
that wraps itself around you
and reflects off unreal blue
in the water that cools you-
and beneath the surface, colour explodes.
All the life and laughter is in that air.
It tastes like rain and seashells,
like pineapple juice and coloured print
like frangipani and sarongs and sun
It is the echo of vibrance,
the missing peace
of my past.
borrows your life
has none of its own.
This innocent glass,
so easily shattered-
for looking alone!
A mirror alone
is still and empty
has no purpose.
the same as anguish,
fill the void.
a blank page best;
my spring rain.
The colour of contemporary tears is
mascara on white pillow
traces of truth where the
comes off, because pain is not waterproof.
Aloof, the lines of slick black
that bat the words far
we stay on the edge of
our taught heartstrings held
as we learn not to leak
before other eyes, so instead we
our pain on white in quiet darkness.
Airplanes like comets
drawing cloud-lines in the sky,
rips in reality beyond which other worlds lie.
Worlds bathed in fire, because orange shines through.
If reality really ripped, what would we do?
My mind begins to spiral, up but so low
till all that's left is the nothingness I know,
and suddenly you stand at the edge of the end,
a universe of silence in which we pretend
to have a purpose, that there is truth, that we are real.
But when you perceive there's nothing, there's nothing to feel.
An accidental planet trying to fill the space
but in this universe of silence, we simply have no place
when I release my fantasies, I lose it all
the ground falls away, and equally I fall.
So I grasp at small things...
like man-made comets with metal wings
ripping reality, passing by
painting purpose on an empty sky.
Thinking is submission
the sin in recognition
the flaw in recollection
that painful rejection
of the lie.
With a mind like a blank page
could pass a day or pass an age
surcease of sorrow and of rage
both freedom and a cage
is the silence.
But like a drill the thought violates
twisting strings of vicious fates
and neither heaven nor hell placates
the upheaval it creates
in my soul.
Would that I could hide in my denial
sacred sanctuary for a while
making real the most fake smile
playing on my lips.
But they grant me not that peace
you grant me no release
thus the haunting does not cease
so stubborn this crease
on my page.
Succumb again to silence
hide in self-wrought ignorance
fear not the consequence
'tis not right, nor is it decadence