Diminishing lights
curving gradually
blinking until lost
in the depths of night.
Distant the fading airplane hum carrying on
once gone
from sight.
Suffer not wondering
of its destination,
the possibility of passengers,
the needful yearn to be one.
Some wished to stay behind,
to sit as you do
and remain on a patch of soil.
Imagine another wanting your life.
Bemused?
You should wonder why.

Almost content
Not fully there yet
But an improvement nonetheless.
Yes?
I'll take that
as time well spent,
well as time not wasted
a recovery of sorts
Almost brave enough to gather thoughts,
Almost.
Almost considering making plans.
Yes,
Plans come before hope but after dreams. And I'm not ready to consider anything as bountiful as those.
But it'll take more time. More healing and permitting myself an occasional forgiveness.
Maybe just one.
Meant to help lighten the load so I've been told

When wings of time
sweep you away
things return
to being just things
Nothing to cherish
nothing significant
Nothing worth noting
A night without stars
a sun without radiant warmth.
A wine stain is a blemish
A cold pillow takes up space
A clock tics slowly.
Things are only things
nothing more
You gave them essence

On the wall opposite
a gallery of posters and pamphlet raising awareness, and warnings
of conditions
he prays she doesn't have.
High glossed brochures they hope not to collect afterwards
The weight of the waiting
as crushing as the worries
they try to play off
in light conversation
pretending it's nothing.
Urging each open door and passing uniform to be the calling.
Eyes burning through the back of those who came after,
but are seen before them.
The unfairness of it draws the focus of their anxiousness in mutter curses.
Recalling the sayings
"its a rare person who wants to hear what they don't want to hear."
it depends on why and how long you're waiting.
They sit there trying to stay calm, distracted
and stare at the floor,
focusing on the ripped edge of a poster as many before have and many will again

Within the woods
a cluster of silver birch
stand proud among the pines and hazel and elms.
Below the gaze of the silver bark eyes
half hidden beneath the mulch and loam of ground
a toppled circle of stone can be found
to a kean eye
faded traces of blackened soil
painted by the death of a flame
It holds memories, if you listen,
of promises and dreams intimately whispered about the fire
when everything and the world died except you and I.

Still the night
muffled by a dark velvet sky
so animals may slumber
while others take silent flight.
An aphotic world
kept in secret from sight
shared only among hushes
in the envelope of a sigh.

I'll have to iron them I said for the fifth day in a row
eyeing the pile as it grows
stacked on a chair buried somewhere there under the creases and crumbled clothes
Er, I'll do it tomorrow,
maybe,
who knows?