These words will not be sad enough,
Until the ink's run a little from the tears,
Nor will they be weak enough,
Unless they are as shaky as my hand,
They will not be desperate enough,
Until they fill every corner of the page,
Searching for hope which is not there.

Take the pieces of my broken heart,
If you want them,
Take each tear-drop as I fall apart,
If you want them,
Take all the words I wrote to you,
If you want them,
Take the songs I sang for you,
If you want them,
Because though I know you cannot belong with me,
I give everything I have to you,
And I hope that will at least make you smile,
Just once

A finger traces my jaw,
A whisper nudges my ear,
A rustling, a word, a hint,
I know.

A hand on my arm,
A breath trickles down my neck,
Closer he crawls, a touch,
I know.


A kiss on my cheek,
As I close my eyes and imagine,
Myself away, free, but
I know.

He will get what he wants,
Again.

There's something at the window,
Something waking in the night,
Something in the kitchen,
Something's turning out the light,
Something's foot on the floorboards,
Something's hand on the door,
Something getting closer,
Something louder, something more
than just something in my eye,
Or something made up in my head,
Not just something I imagined,
I can hear the something's breath,
Now there's something on my shoulder,
Something cold in my side -

And now it doesn't matter,
Something hurt me and I died.

Why are my eyes widest in the dark?
When there's less to see,
No light to see by,
I strain to see the details.

As the shadows creep across and pull the curtains closed,
I find subtly lighter shades of night,
Paint colours far more vivid,
Than the tones of daytime.

The harder it is to see, the more truth the dark reveals,
The tighter fatigue's fingers wrap round my waist,
The more I want her embrace,
And soon I'm smothered in purest black,
Where I feel at home,
At peace,
Until the crack of dawn sends me to sleep.

The simple pleasure,
Of feeling my hair,
Move around in the wind,
Which carries on its breath,
The sweet sound of my name.

To know that as stranger's eyes,
Glance at me,
They see the same person,
As I see in my head,
Without a second look.

To feel the freedom in my legs,
The spring in my step,
Blossom under my feet,
Too early, perhaps, but the winter has been mild,
And my heart did not freeze.

The smoothest screams carve faces in these cliffs,
And wrinkles as they age,
Become cracks and gaping holes,
That before long collapse in on themselves,
Until those eyes of rock and dirt,
Cry from hollow shells.

A trunk of limestone strong and high, splits to stretching branches,  
   Those stones were set, so long ago but still will hold such weight.    
      Could they have known when those ancient hands,
Set this pillar firm and new?
That after centuries,
Still they'd stand,
Still strong and
Straight and true.
And even now,
Though old and
Worn, those gazes
Question: How?
Such wonder fills
Every eye which
Looks upon the
Polished bark,
Smoothed by
Mortal hands not
Nature's breath
That will never
Know such pain
As death or the
Feet or nest of
A crow or lark.
And who can
Say how many
Years, decades,
Centuries from
Now the last
Stone will decay?
When will that            
          Final rock
crumble              
               back to dust?
When it does,
will anyone              
know what           beauty
it once was?
And will those
                         hands that
placed the          
                                    first stone
finally                                
sleep and rest?

In
blurry  
        mornings
Before eyes are conscious
Before my thoughts connect
That steam, that aroma
Is simple bliss
To stumbling minds.

They stand, patient,
The world so young in their eyes,
To them years pass as days,
Seasons no more than a breath.

At their feet shelter found,
From their arms, spring's children fly,
Om their fingers youthful green to rust,
Such beauty, even in death.

The blaze of vibrant flowers,
Burns for but a moment,
Snowdrops into tulips in less than,
A solitary blink.

Autumn breezes over in hours,
Snow, chill and ice melt just as quick,
Life blooms before they can,
Feel the sun on their skin.

They may see centuries but cannot
Stop to look.

This stolen-or-found pencil writes
Far more smoothly than any keyboard
Or any pen of my own
So sterile
With no past
No stories to tell but
This...
This lead is filled
With memories
With sights and sounds
Of journeys
Of places I've never seen
Inspiration beyond any truth
From imagination moments

Through branches of shaking trees
Clinging on to their long-dead leaves
Lights glare in my tear-stained lenses
And flicker between breaths

Those bark-coated fingers
Reach out with shadows
On moss-stained fences
Tired, unable to stand

And in these fading hours
I see only where the dark touches
And smile only at dead and dying
Broken and falling.

Those glinting lights...
Needles in my eyes