.
     I stare down at the plate of toast and beans
     wondering why this was never part of my dreams.
     Looking for the future with an illusional pretence,
     hoping good apples will fall on my side of the fence.

And as the fork dances slow
around the legumes in spirals,
the tedium of a wasting life
bears the burden and scars
of missed opportunities in paralysis
and the colour of once bright lights
          glow black,
shining a shadow into the void
covering the bruises
that were once achievements of worth,
     now tender patches
          of failure.
I drop the fork ...

     … pushing away the plate and leaving food uneaten,
     my desire for its nutrition fought and beaten,
     Looking at the apple tree with sombre regret
     maybe its fruit will fall and save me yet.

And disappointment
is worse than anger,
it begins with the stench of loss
the nasal whiff of
what if …

And what if the little apple tree
drops all its fruit down to me?
Would I recognise fortune on my side
or fear the illusions and run to hide?


© Pagan Paul (17/02/18)

Eyes fixed on the desert stretching its tired body across the earth

Years fly by and before you know it you are no longer staring across the way on that one certain day,
It's ten years later, twenty, thirty, nearing the end, and you think,
what will I be...

Will I be forever living in a dream,
and is all that surrounds us not what it seems?

If I were a flower,
you'd be the ground
and I'd pierce your skin,
to find what makes me live.

But boys are never the ones
we see as fragile flowers,
and if I keep hurting you,
it's because I couldn't live without,
the light of your presence

What's the appropriate punishment
for an intentional murderer?
Looking from the eyes of the deceased family members,
What's your verdict?
What if the accused is a family member?
What if the accused had a good life and
was influenced by "something"?
Will the accused be condemned for life?
Could there be a second chance?

Tens of Hen in a Pen
Waiting for their chance to come

Chance to breathe some nice fresh air
Chance to enjoy the joy of freedom

No, No, No, nothing like that
Is going to happen for the hens

I am sure their turn will come
Which will cause their ugly Death

They will get killed one by one
And become nice food for some

she hesitates
which always makes her late
reads worn out books at night
with quizzical looks she finds

she writes poetry
all titled please help me
while humming foreign tunes  
she rhymes black inked in blue

she's good at giving gifts
to those less fortunate
to which she receives the most
because that's all she knows

again she hesitates
with things she'd like to say
because she knows it's best
when things are left unsaid

she breathes sighs of relief
it's how she was taught to breathe
while raising her left hand
a right she feels she has

that hand she wears a broken watch
which says more than enough
inside its slient tic
is where her time is kept

when she speaks of relationships
it's a smorgasbord of hit and miss
held out like an apology
a secret that she keeps

she'd like to be a star
in a galaxy far from ours
and maybe then one day
she won't hesitate