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Tell me what is
the difference between
a thought and reality?
We are all trapped,
enslaved by body,
mind first.

It says, "This tastes
good, let's have more."
and we are too weak
to say no.

The power behind the play.
A dangerous game.

Dozens of thoughts
line up for an audience;
relief from their burden.
To become the reality
they already believe is real;
making us act out
like a petulant child,
all that we are;
wrong or right.
I miss you, love.
Even with all the
Rediculous contradictions.
The misspellings and things we tell ourselves.
Not lies, but maybe closer to stories—

I try to be cute and clever,
Distracting from the fact
That it was given up on.
Confusing thought with expectation,
At what age do you assume you know?

I yearn very hard to be more
Than myself; a trait that’s honestly
So ******* tiring. But
My father, at this age,
Told himself he was in love.

I am maybe three when he
Pulled my mother across the room,
By her hair,
They stayed together for 25 years.
And still even now when

I look at him, not thinking
Of those times and feeling,
With all sincerity, Love
For him.
He is himself.

I hurt you in different ways.
And hurt myself even more.
And so tired, tired of
Spacing each line in some special
Way to say some special feeling.

I want to just feel
With true sincerity the things
That need telling.
No metaphor, or simile,
I miss you imperfectly missing.
SHELLING PEAS

a smile
struggles around in his beard
then gets lost again

the doctor spoke like a stone
dropped into a pool
talking in bigggger & biggggger circles

Death politely
knocks at his door
as if it were Beethoven's 5th

"Are you always as
dramatic as this. . ?"
Death just smirks

he felt like
an answer being
chased by a question

he remembers his wife
shelling peas into her lap
a glimpse of white knickers

at last he
found what he was
looking for...his death

he steps into
the blue that
a window offers

the clock
embarrassed by
its own ticking
We are savage and we are cruel
And we know well what we do.
The imprints of sycophants
Echoes in blood red rooms.
The certainty of colour
Washed white and hung too soon.
A memory of light,
A bloom of deja vu.
Remembrance forgotten
Rewritten and then renewed.

Still we know not what we do.

The past is a sombre portrait,
Watercolour hung askew.
Dust and skin belie the truth
Stroke sure yet misconstrued.
In the maelstrom of intent
Will is broken before it is bent.
A promise spoken, never meant.

Still we know not what we do.
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.
Long wait,
liquid moon,
acceptance of fate.

Blue window,
cool light;
I'm a part of it now.

Completely divorced,
not only denied.

Creeping fear
with extreme calm.
Ring the bell.

All you have to do is ask.

Methodical with your
hands;
so many fine details to read.

I'd be disappointed if I
weren't in your mind
when you write.
We're drifting in the evening,
dreaming with the leaves.
The autumn holds a moment,
a portent in the eaves.
The season heaves.
Brown skeletons are gleaming.

The clouds are only swallows
borrowed from bare trees.
The washed canvas sky
dries with arrows of geese.
A watcher breathes
in cloudy gasps, and grows.
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