Paper sharp cut,
Slices deep,
Painless initially,
Blood bright red,
Flows freely,
Stings like nettle,
Finger ******* sore,
Bitter metallic,
Tingles strangely,
Japan flag tissue,
Stiffens sore,
Memory tricks,
Taste pennies,
Flashes of childhood.

I was fifty-three this morning,
But I feel so much older now,
Having lived a lifetime in a day.

It started like a thousand others,
Time suddenly skipped a track,
Everyone I know is dead and gone-

I didn’t even get to say goodbye.
I never knew that time was precious,
This morning was a hundred years ago.

It could be the end of the world as you know it,
When change is a crisis that decolours your life,
If you choose in your blindness to only see grey.

You know nothing has changed, and it’s just
Your perspective that turns day into night, but
It could be the end of the world as you know it.

It’s hard to see good when the news is so bad,
With everyone nervous about what is to come,
If you choose in your blindness to only see grey.

Go back to a place when colours were bright,
Unless you can see that things are not really grey,
It could be the end of the world as you know it.

Try recolouring your life with Instagram intensity,
And switch back and forth to see it’s your choice,
If you choose in your blindness to only see grey.

Repainting your world with your mystical mind,
A perspective that is more balanced than true, or
It could be the end of the world as you know it,
If you choose in your blindness to only see grey.

Why
Worry
Muffled up
Falling silent
White on grey road
Treading on tyre treads
Winter naked tree skeletons
Icicles seem to hang from my nose
Footprints crunch across the ****** crispness
Smoke rises from drink happy crowd
Slip sliding home from the bar
Sneeze freezing friends
Alone at last slán
Breathing fog
Sit down
Sleep
Fin.

Grey skies, contrasting bone-white tree skeletons,
Trudging home for Christmas is an endless nightmare,
Second night hotel-less on a Heathrow bed-less floor,
The crisp white snowiness of home but a distant hope,
Media revels in this travellers’ misery, so switch off,
I think I will head home somewhat earlier next year,
This snow bound, homeward bound, hopeless man.

The time when the fire of love,
Becomes the warmth of loving,
When the electricity of touch,
Becomes the comfort of a hug,
When the pleasure of passion,
Becomes the marriage of minds,
When the frustration of routine,
Becomes the wish of escape,
When the distance of absence,
Becomes the need of closeness,
When the freedom of together,
Becomes the perfection of us.

Rain-blinded laser-focus on lights in front,
Always one second from impact, or worse,
A zombie living death of three more hours,
Slow down, let the mad and the bad pass,
Blindingly oblivious to their impending end.

This driving rain seems now inside my mind
A black cold cloud wraps my beating heart
With its unforgiving tendrils, it is a mistake
To think  that it is always better to travel,
Than to arrive, in this driving, dying rain.