it was, just one step.
not looking the right way,
at the right time.

a screaming hissing dragon
sound...
and then kaput!
i was down among the dead.

sitting in a room,
walls bloodred,
and decorated, tickertape style,
with all the things,
i'd left unsaid.

there was one window,
through which i saw...
what my life could have been.
if not, for an, unlucky draw.

there was no door.
and the floor was tiled,
in regrets and tears.
the light, filtered through,
a crystal chandelier,
of my fears.

i no longer sleep or wake.
but yet, am suspended
in this nightmare state.

and every afternoon,
at, four seventy five
the red eyed god.
checks that i breathe.

and always, he says
just before he leaves.

if you, had looked both
ways,
this would not have
happened,
you would have seen the bus, that left you, squished and flattened

and that,
is when it registers,
once more....
this is hell.... i am dead
and here forever....

and the red eyed god,
laughs and says,

are n't you clever!!!

he then leaves.

and  i remain,
wishing i could,
replay that moment
again
when i step down,
off the curb
in front of a bus.
going to some
unknown suburb.

for me,
there is an undeniably
exquisite beauty,
in an aged face
it lies in the lines of life,
etched by angels,
as unseen cartographers.
it hides behind the crow's feet and creased frown lines. it is so apparent in the mryiad of tiny wrinkles
at the movement
of the faded red lips.
it is carried in the baggage under the eyes
and the luggage of wattle
at the throat.
it winks from slow
moving eyelids and thin arching brows.
it glows in a smile
that folds and creases
the skin like origami.
it is the beauty,
ethereal,
of a life lived,
of love found
and lost,
of hardship suffered,
and joys revealed,
of working hard each
and every day,
yet still finding time
to sing and dance
and play.
it is beauty,
created by endurance.
not manufactured
by cosmetics and pills
and machines.
it is a beauty,
so honest and true,
that it needs not
these things,
to embellish or frame,
it is the beauty,
of the years passing by, standing proud,
without fear or shame.
it is the old woman
sitting on the bus,
in the park,
having a quiet cup of tea,
it is my mother,
asleep in front of the tv.
and one day,
              i hope it will be me....

Branches break and children quake
In these vile, narcotic dreams
While your glare cuts through the air
Enticing blood-curdling screams

Angels fall and demons call
To the vicious beast that dwells inside
It tips the scale; I try, but fail
It still devours the tears I've cried

Memories taunt and you still haunt
I try to numb the pain, my cross to bear
For you're still here; in the dark, I fear
The angel from my nightmares