the sky danced green with envy, to the warm glow from the cottage
still half buried under snow
voices sing and a line goes through the heart of each note,
call it perfections song, to the sky
eyes see through all obstacles in the way to get to a place,
call it a sense of direction, on the earth
heart beating as you lay waking from the dead of night,
call it you are alive,                               flesh
and for a change you are not alone,  to flesh
music playing on the your iPod, in the dock in the living room
you left on all night, as you two took everything off to go to,
it wasn't bed,
the music was wrong,
but all else was oh so right, on a cold and frozen night,
at least one heart was thawed,
and one voice hit perfect pitch,
funny you don't remember that part, being in any of those songs

If you were the ocean,
what body of water that
would be, but only salty
from the tears you have
cried missing me...

If I were sky, it would be the colour
of my eyes, yet cloudy with age,
and the tears would not fail, to fall
like hail from my cold and ***-
tant shaped heart.

There is one place I promise we can meet,
despite the gaps between us seeming, ever
grand and global,
keep your eyes on the horizon, run to meet me
there, as I fall from the heights for you...

yet I understand, if there is no softness in the catch...

again and again...I will fall.

in no sense, don't make dollars to donuts, for what

you be, causation of grief, and grieving, of parents dis-
believing, of siblings, now lonelier or only children, the list goes

on

and on,

to my horror, that you make war, taking away child-
like play times, balling up the air from lungs and replacing it with fire,

                                                          ­                                  so much ire

                                                            ­                    so much more ire, in
self-appointed masters of a three ring circus,

poison seeds always find fertile ground, as that

is what dirt does,

seeds and dirt, with your toxic oil-less spill, you pack up your

tents and take it to where the people are, living their lives, too

intent on making ends

meet, that they don't see the clouds of dark-
ness, like some mythical monster which is only

talked about when there is a death toll,
                                               tower bells toll,
that they could be ringing forever in your ears,

(until they and you both melt in hell)

and your ears hear the sound of children's voices,

laughing loudly at play forever clearly.
(read screaming for their parents,
                    through pain,
                          their tears and heartbreak)

surely you lit your own fires flames, using Newspapers

with stories covering your infamy,

too bad there can't be a media ban on the (         )
there is no honour in this fully your shame.