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How  do  the  tourist's
know  I'm  local.
They  are  always  stopping  me.
And  asking  the  way  to  the  lake.
Perhaps  It's  because
I'm  walking  on  my  own.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.
I cut open my flesh
blood
sinew
bone.

no beating.
gone.
only stone.

stolen.

dried
ground to powder.

ashes thrown.

sank deep
below.

dank.

fallow.

one day
reborn.

a fish
wild
free.

found
again.

endless
black
sea.
Minimalistic
and easy to read
yes, he is easy
just as you are to please

You call it a tease
but I know I'm an art
built up from pieces
of each delicate part
I've got a war in my head
and there's a war in my heart
torn amongst the sheets
where I'm lost in the dark
so it is the end?
is this the end?

The veins of this town
and the streets of this life
dissolve when I fall
when I finally take flight

I'm tired from the nights
and I'm dead by the day
buried and ready
to float me away
you want me
to be seen
but never quite heard
permanently muted;
*a beakless bird
3am
His finger in my mouth
when a whispered speak
The only exception
that made me weak
Splintered at numbers
that are left on re-dial
Watching the clock
3am denial
Between life and death
and all the rest
emotions fly
and we don't know why.
But onward  through
our journey true
the highs and lows
the news and olds
what things seem
and what we mean
one thing is sure
for us born pure
one simple birth
upon this earth
will always be
for you and me
one and all
to catch our fall
when our hope strays
a God that stays
is always seen
everywhere
and in between.
 May 2016 Finley in Despair
niamh
I beg you dear father,
Please do not scold.
I was a good boy -
Did what I was told.
I held my fear,
I kept my head
And when he was near
I shot him dead.

Then a bullet found me
And as I fell
On a one way ticket
To my personal hell,
I looked at my enemy
And thought of you.
Realized we all bleed red.
Who knew?
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