L'amour :
C'est quoi ? C'est où ?
Tout le monde ne sait pas,
Mais j'espère que je le trouve.

Thats the thing about poetry,
you think im talking about a
broken heart,
when really,
Im talking about a broken
world.

Sat before a cake, I ponder
What life has stored me yet:
Trains delayed;
A mortgage repaid;
Perhaps a holiday, or two.

Entrapped by colourful balloons,
But certainly not grounded,
I look forward,
Though seldom back.

I look forward,
In pleasure;
In fear;
Nonetheless in hope.

Hope that we all emerge
From behind closed doors,
Safe as the houses in which we have stayed;

Hope that there's a role for me
In a company,
In my society,
In our world;

Hope that love embraces me
And shows the way
To a better love,
A better life;

Hope...
That this cake actually
Tastes rather nice.

I should probably start on the cake.
It looks scrummy.

Ever the yonder,
ever the fonder.

Your grasp,
one day soon,
will entangle me in happiness.
I'll never wish to leave.

Yet the roads stretch;
the clocks stop;
the crowds vanish.

Four walls surround me,
And for you, one day,
one of them will fall.

Death is not pretty.
Death is not brave,
Death is not freedom
Or grace
Or clarity
Or glorious.
Death is lonely,
Undignified,  
And vastly disappointing.
I do not recommend you try it.

(Written from my best friend's viewpoint. I hope she gets better soon.)

In search of release,
Autumnal gusts escape me.
A sorrow shower.