She sleeps
I'm outside under the eaves sheltering little from the rain
smoking late into the a.m. wide awake,
coffee for company and her scent
clinging to my skin.
There's isolated bouts of traffic  
late night revellers
returning
shadows
there to witness between
lamplight neons,
but I'm cocooned away
restless in the washes of rain
thinking of one in slumber within
the walls on which I lean

No one's gonna come

looking for you under a rock

don't have
such luck
                       wishful waiting won't pick
                you up
for someone to love
you give them something to love
        if you always hide away
                     no one will know what you got
Think it's time to shake
                           up
this place


                           paint yourself
fill up the space
might go against
      every ounce
of your self worth
but
                   if what your worth
               is worth it

                                     GIVE IT
a chance.

           Blind them all.

Caught the tailend chimes of their laughter pealing through the corridor.
I stopped to listen at the gaiety
without a thought of its source,
simply enjoying echoes
of merriment.
It's contagiousness brought me a smile
gladdened to go unnoticed as a witness
happy to ignore its origin
sometimes it's enough
to know loved ones are enjoying themselves.

The weight of the last cinderblock
took its toll,
that one final heave,
hoist and offload
handballing the lot
from broken pallets
to flatbed's top
no forklift or barrow in sight
under weather made heavy
by breezeless skies.
Body's done,
hand's numb,
mind's dumb,
arms quiver through,
back aches from over missuse.
Fingers so stiff,
with a pen I cant write.
My thumbs are grumpy
through which I type.
Feeling old hitting my wall
which I have yet to build
gives me something to do tomorrow
if I make it till tonight.

a hook of a moon
hanging low
burying itself into the dark soil of night ploughing methodically
churning the folds of time unsympathetically
despondent
weary
oblivious to the passing seeds
of thought
laboured over.
Should I expect more
from the ruts it rolls,
perhaps growth of understanding
or a crop of acknowledgment
for my wonderment of it?
Or is it simply a tool
to capture imaginations
of a fool who secretly belives
I have an intimate bond
with its silent magnificence,
perhaps wishing it looks at me
like a brother who shares this moment.