.
     I stare down at the plate of toast and beans
     wondering why this was never part of my dreams.
     Looking for the future with an illusional pretence,
     hoping good apples will fall on my side of the fence.

And as the fork dances slow
around the legumes in spirals,
the tedium of a wasting life
bears the burden and scars
of missed opportunities in paralysis
and the colour of once bright lights
          glow black,
shining a shadow into the void
covering the bruises
that were once achievements of worth,
     now tender patches
          of failure.
I drop the fork ...

     … pushing away the plate and leaving food uneaten,
     my desire for its nutrition fought and beaten,
     Looking at the apple tree with sombre regret
     maybe its fruit will fall and save me yet.

And disappointment
is worse than anger,
it begins with the stench of loss
the nasal whiff of
what if …

And what if the little apple tree
drops all its fruit down to me?
Would I recognise fortune on my side
or fear the illusions and run to hide?


© Pagan Paul (17/02/18)

All the brightness of the sun cannot
take my desire
to run my fingers through
the blue flame
how magnificent my hair burns,
and how magical this ease
with which my whole is being consumed
by you, reddish wolverine
you own me, I am thine

my ash shall
go with the wind
a pinch over the coastline
and the residue
over the weeping grass
light the fire in the sky
and I will be fine

I, with barely opened eyes
see, how your atrocious glory spies
through the half-opened window
  but my paltry, languid soul calls for rest,
  in her old and weathered skin,
  and would she sway in the wind,
  she for sure would loose herself
god, close the curtains and let me dream
I need to sleep, sleep, sleep