A house full of spectres,
a mouth full of rye,
left out in the darkness,
someone will cry.

death was a reason,
tears were for show,
once out of the bottle,
these spectres wont go.

Oh fly, fly, where have you been ?
a freshly laid dog **** or some moldy old cream ?,
buzzing this way and spluttering that,
spiraling angrily on to the cat,
bang into the wall then on to the floor,
like a mad game of pinball with a very high score.
Where next, my fluffy black friend,
a  slam of a book and I'm afraid its the end !

© H V Swan

The sea calls out her name,
soft whispers hidden in the sound of the waves that gently break against the shore,
holding out my hand I touch the empty air,
it reaches back yet I feel nothing but the cold,
salt filled mist that swirls through my soul.


© H V Swan

The stigmata within our soul is clouding all judgement,  
a blood red mist casts shadows on our clarity of thought,
the clash of apathetic steel resounds out as we battle with the demons within.
Yet Christ is nailed to all our souls,
his blood falls as acid rain, acrid, vile,
tainting our vision,
polluting our vestiture of lustful thought,  
sanctimonious vibrations, sent to our darkest depths,
the spirit sighs under such lofty duress.


© H V Swan