Broken wings don't serve much purpose,
except for in their beauty alone,
with constant reminders that linger in air,
of days an nights that have flown,

All gone so quickly to notice,
the value of passing minutes,
it's hard to see the forest ahead,
when you find you are within it,

Death for some a gift of life,
reborn to see it anew,
to finally know all the answers you had,
of times when you hadn't a clue,
why do song birds sing so sweet,
and why is the sky so blue?

Innocence is often lost,
to many back in youth,
except for the enlightened few,
who fear not in the truth,

When for you a peace would come,
to take away all the worry,
your feet will finally get a rest,
from living amid the hurry,

It seems I have a few years left,
or decades for all I know,
perhaps I must endure the pain,
for seeds I've left to sow,

I wish that I could see you again,
in all your earthly glory,
though I tell of you,
in the words that I cry,
of our poetic story,

Tears they hit a barren page,
they flood my very being,
releasing for me the poet within,
a gift for me in freeing,
opening up my eyes to the world,
in all that I am seeing,

I hope ahead for clearer skies,
an at night for a peaceful sleep,
I hope for no more fatal days,
of lost souls in the deep,

I am unafraid of death by now,
I've seen her up close before,
she didn't come wearing,
a cloak this time,
as she took you away from my door,

Death is there for everyone,
just as is our birth,
I hope one day that I will know,
what every second,
is worth.

Ma Cherie © 2017

You left me with the a bid
a bigger slice of my best
a wish me well that lingers
even longer without your love

Your unformed abrubt reasons
of tainted unsainted failed logic
a wish you well, no hesitations
on the table of untouched melodies

My walls are a brighter emerlard
with stripes of the unmissed kisses
matted with peace and liberation
of torn risks and control measures

My sad blues were washed by the rains
above the moon and over skies above
scouring, soaring, scrapping, summing
in another forever of amaizing lines

There are no right answers.
The sky rejects the birds, turns them
over to gravity,
embedding them in the concrete and dirt.
The grit refuses to become a pearl,
just as the wound refuses to heal
and the flesh eats itself.
The market sees a sudden spike in
sales of Champagne and cyanide.
Coordinated efforts seek and fail
to curtail the rising tide of violence
in the nation's dreaming.
You realise that this crude, barbaric language
that you can't understand
is your own.
Beauty glitches and pixelates.
Frightened, furtive confessions of love
are unheard over proud, visceral
proclamations of hate.
Tongues divorce mouths.
Every now and then, a voice
inside your head says,
'Thud.'
The measures of sanity become
more quantifiable and
totally arbitrary.
The horizon
tightens
like
a noose.

It doesn't matter if this is wrong.
There are no right answers.

They all gather to the deadhouse
Like actors taking to a well trodden stage
Whether from London's' Kings Cross
Or the finery of NYC's Queens borough
Back to the fold all prodigal sons must return
To join with those that could never find a way
From this barren cold land and its insular bitter lies
All united now in a grief of one that has been lost  
All divided by a rivalry, a rumor, some generational feud
The priest commences his weary and over versed tone
As he summons his God, his Jesus and his Litany of Saints
Incense burns as a symbol of the prayer of the faithful rising
Yet rising no further than their hypocrisy descends

And where do you look when even Jesus lets you down
As you turn to wipe that burning tear from your face
One not born from holy water nor from their devils grace

Doors are opened and a captive audience awaits
A procession of mourners to take their turn to the stage
Heads bowed all and one, as hands are extended
In weak and feeble grips amid their mumbled exchanges
"Sorry for your loss" and "taken too soon"
None hesitate too long as they navigate this fallowed room
An occasional recognised face among a community of strangers
A moment of warmth emanating from this ritualistic parade
All gone too soon unlike those memories of years past
Of wanting to get out and get free, promising never to go back
Yet to the last of this line they swear that they remember you well
Whilst retiring to The Old Stand with promise of more stories to tell

Where the whiskey chasers flow like the Guinness on draught
Helping to swallow the lies on how good it is to be back
Rehashing of old platitudes but nothing really said

For no one shall ever speak ill of the dead