A sigh,
Your breath,
Your hand in mine.

No need to make,
This poem rhyme.

For,
My love,
All you can take.

My love,
My hand,
My endless lake,

Of love,
Of passion,
Of this young boy,

For this man's love,
Is not a toy.

Just go fishing,
Into the blue.

For my love,
Is all for you.

GRAHAM MURPHY

Why not?
Give it a go...

It is one thing,
To say no.

Just say yes.
Just once for me.
If not then,
Just once for thee.

GRAHAM MURPHY

Black as night,
The sky so blue.

Bright as day,
The stars are too.

In your eyes I see the world,
And in the world I see your life.

In your eyes I see you whole.
Your hopes,
Your dreams.
Don't let them hold.

Be free and wild,
As you should be.

Even if,
Means leaving me.

Though break my heart,
It would make.

Anything for you,
I take.

GRAHAM MURPHY

Words have not the dimensions,
To describe my rose.

Tall in the sunlight,
With a ****** pose.

In the whitest of winters,
A snowflake will freeze.

To witness the moment,
Of your warmth on the breeze.

A sound from your petals,
Stills the scribes hands,
And ignites the Flames Of Passion.

GRAHAM MURPHY

There I sit in a lonely room.
Scribbling a silky thread.
I look up at the mountain so tall.
The task fills me with dread.

I let the page fall at my heel,
The needle to and fro.
I have reached the great wall.
My breath begins to slow,

What makes you pull the rose?
That rose?
But only one...
Then appears your grin again.
She makes you play Chaconne.

The bow plays the sinews
Of mine Heart.
To stitch the seams
Of this fine Art.

Beads of sweat drip from my brow.
Struggle through the mountain pass.
Duet of cloths in unity
Catch quick, quick to hear my brass.

GRAHAM MURPHY

In my world it rains indoors.
The riverbed is always flooded.

The bottle is opened
and the hot liquid is poured.

And it keeps pouring.
Over its cold heart.
Little blocks of ice.

Lying in darkness,
I speak of unspoken things.
How much I reveal is unknown.
Even to me.

In my head...
In my head they are crying.
Their constant gaze.
I'm still fighting...
I'm still dying...

My childhood scars run deep.

And they burn...

In the black I feel a warm hand
touch my back.
It guides me safely.
I can not survive the night,
without this guiding hand.

I am not a beekeeper.
I cannot control their raging storm.

Yes...

I too hear the thrum...
They are forcing their way out.

The box is too full already.

The dark shapes are moving in the blackness.
The children's hands are bound
and they are beaten.
They want what was taken from them.

I can't help but think...
the guiding hand is not enough...
Release the children from their box!

I will stand on the flooded riverbed
and pay with one gold coin for passage.

GRAHAM MURPHY