old man walking on the street,
step by step a tired treat.
he knows where he's going but
not why and from the edges of an eye,
sees the boats and cigarettes
floating in the water.
his grey hands feel so used
dusty veins bulging, purple and bruised.
he feels young
he feels so very young.
plants being planted,
recalling the rants that he once ranted.
wished for wisdom to be granted
all for his daughter.
now long departed.
then he leaves this mournful place.
the ghost of a smile on his face.
remembering the laughter they used to share.
he takes another breath of air.
Time and time again
I strike over and over.
drifting and sifting
lifting the smells of clover.
That I could be sober means nothing,
the gamble has been taken.
The prize is not lost
I have become lost.
what once was closeness
has now become space.
thanks to the emptiness
of my own action.
do not tell me that I have been foolish
for I know I have.
I am here to see that
my fear is what will be,
close to me.
Long farewell to pass into night,
twist and weave the green, green grass you hold so close.
Never letting it be known that the long walk we take
is mostly made of thorns.
Mind the lines for they are only lines.
Remember when the clouds gather
firefly's will kiss back the rain.
Shine like the mind.
Forever hold onto the long and dusty road
made of thorns and grass.
Let wine guide your feet
and forever hold the fire.
Let me be the one who walks through open doors
Life showing remnants of days ignored.
Stubbing the candle in search
of normative light.
So that scented tables guide the way,
into frolicking lands where harps should play.
When these creatures take my hand
Finally all is complete.
Valleys sink and mountains rise
shifting between separate pairs of eyes.
Taking me to where is, should be.
Forlorn, for being in the now.
Take stock staggers the rocks
into shapes forming the cinder blocks.
Perhaps the mundane
can in some ways beautiful.
If you can give me any pointers as to how i can improve just leave a comment. would love to hear from you :)
Show me your empty orchestra.
Of halls and walls,
the silent stalls.
Which separate and manipulate.
The magic. With the tragic.
Show me your tortured dreams
of all you deem, those sacred themes.
Of hate, of love.
Of the many worlds you write thereof.
Make me salivate.
Over this empty space,
Of which you shall never, ever deface.
Glass of wine today.
Maybe two? feeling wavy woo
Red divine, nice of you.
was a bit drunk when i wrote this one so don't hate if it is not a proper haiku :)
Cradles the clock.
Second hand. Slow stop.
Nailed to walls.
So the clock falls.
Cogs making cracks
Springs, springing firm then lax.
waxen marks grinding
generating sparks as the hands point.
Moving to soothing,
Handles the seconds
guessing it recons.
Until Tick Tock.
Starts to stop.