Water rushes down from the fall, cool and clear.
I drink my fill, hoping to forget.
Hoping to forget you.
I don’t want to, but I have to.
If I want to make it.
If I want to survive.
I sit down under the water, letting it rush over my skin.
The water pools down and flows across the stream.
My memories of you are already fading,
Your smile. Your laugh. Your eyes.
They simply fade.
I calm down as my mind get clearer and clearer.
I have to do this.
The water pounds against my skull, but the sound is soothing.
It fades more quickly.
From when I first met you, when you spoke to me for the first time.
When I left for a long time, and when I found you there, waiting for me.
“I have to do this.” I told myself.
But the tears running down my face told my brain otherwise.
They blended with the water and surrounded me.
Then, you were gone.
Just like that.
You were gone.

I'm in love
with a lie
that is older than me,

and a hope
that is younger
than
the most recent spring;

Not a parroted dream
but a queen
of deep schemes
that parses out wisdom
and better poems
than me.

I'm in love
with a drug
that I create
everyday,
not pill
that some take
but the thoughts
that make
my mind great,

and the shadows
that I see
make me want
to believe
there is something
greater out there
that is in love with me.

How open is your window,
  how tall is your door

How old is your virtue,
  how slippery your floor

How fresh is your perception,
  how broad is your scope

How clear is your reflection,
  how real is your hope

How strong is your commitment,
  how deep is your well

How solid are your friendships,
  how many pray tell

How sweet is your melody,
  how lyrical the dawn

Will your words play a rhapsody
  —once turned into song

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)

Springs first morning
Freshness unmistaking
The larks early call
Their singing did befall

A roving along this wondrous path
I viewed a chiselled epitaph
Etched into splendid Larch
Read 'beware the Ides of March'

Perhaps a soothsayers warning
Was unexpected this Spring morning
This is so nondescript
Had I stumbled upon a Crypt

This isn't a Roman arch
It's merely a tree of Larch
This is not ancient Rome
This is not a catacomb

Twas the 15th day of March
I found the secret of the Larch
Words weren't scribed by t'other factors
than a mere plethora of actors

It was the scene of a play
of Ceasers fateful day
where Brutus and Cassius
hatched a plan to **** Julius

A roving first day of Spring
Where Butterflies Flutter, bees did sting
Down wondrous path i passed
Where Ceaser breathed his last

Martyn Grindrod

.
He is just another notch
     on her sterile bed of love.
He is just another victim
     of conquest for her thighs.
She is just another link
     in his daisy chain of woe.
She is just another span
     on his long bridge of sighs.


© Pagan Paul (21/05/17)

All packed and ready to go
Hurry, hurry, hurry,
I won’t be late for any chance
To let people know me
But sometimes I’m left behind
That also makes me wanna sleep
So when I’m used I do my best to make the loveliest sound
And I’ll try my best to show my best

You walked past countless people

Walked fast without looking twice

Brushed the body of someone

Who'll be gone by the end of night