The cut is yet deep.

Standing in the crowd holding her hopes like a child with a balloon
the rain wet street mirrored on her cheek
she sees only ghosts and memories around her.
Her soul contorts and twists under the weight of her loss
weeping for that which was
and faded dreams lie in litter at her feet.

Shadowy solace hovers impotently
loath to approach lest he be burned in her cold fire.
Her thoughts hang in strands:
"O, fountain blood be my salve
for hollow loneliness is my home"
Unheard, unheeded, unreleased
they echo and play across her mind in metallic tones.

And the cut is yet deep.

Pain sings in her heart
marking her world with it's dissonant pallette.
Bright and brittle, with a lover's hunger
offering a seductive embrace she can no longer resist.
Siezing to it's sharpness and brilliance like a keepsake
she draws it to her willingly
and loves it.

But hers is not the step, the end, the sleep.
"I am queen here" she cries to an unknowing world
"Heed me, for I shine"
and shaking off the woe she turns from the path.
Fierce Nike takes her hand and leads her forward,
onward to a new beginning, a new season, a new hope.
For yes, the cut is yet deep
but cuts will heal with gentle touch
and even scars may fade in the sun.

A life hangs painted on the wall of the world
made in brush and texture on the canvas
the hills and trees and rivers of experience
are drawn broad and large.

Bright points of detail shining in brighter colour,
memories sparkle like sunlight on water.
Standing out in jewels are snooker and cribbage and beer.
Jokes and stories are picked out like light on leaves
and mended bikes and late night lifts glow as flowers against the shadows.

No more trees or hills will find their way onto this view.
No more flowers or rivers will gleam or wind.
It is complete and we must see
though artist's brush is stilled and colours dry
the memories will remain undimmed and firm
and love will keep the picture clear.

We stand here now and mourn the artist's passing
but our heavy hearts are eased by the gleaming landscape before us.
And it is to our own pictures we must turn
and save that we keep the memories bright
and at the close we ensure our lives
may at least approach the beauty of my Father's painting.

Selene casts her silver cape across the sky and gazes coldly
as bats exchange their hanging world for dance,
flashing over the sable sky in half-seen streaks.
Lights rash across the land and man's fear of darkness breaks the night
with candle, lamp and fluorescence.

What dimly remembered horrors stalked the hours
and drove us fearful and small into the firelight's globe?
What beasts, what demons stood beyond the reach of sight
and kept us huddled, staring back until the dawn?

Selene passes on and weeps for her wasted beauty,
her cape faded and shrunken in the waxing day.
Saving her perfect desire in starry softness,
she prepares herself with eager hope and prays
there will be someone who steps outside the light
and, looking up, remembers how to love the night.

holding each other
we kissed away our friendship
I mourn for it now

The sun touched the ground
and turned the world to ashes
the domed tower stands.

Taking our place in the rainbow world
our wandering concern will fall on love
and with shaking hands we survey the prize
we hope that life will render.

 The passionate kind
filled with pounding blood and sighing breath
tight and sharp and quick
caring not for time or place. 

The cold kind
with eyes of white fire and lofty mien
protective, stern and strong
given freely and broken never. 

The fierce, angry kind
glassy and bright
that breaks into beautiful shining pieces
and glories in the pain of its destruction. 

The soft and yielding kind
brimming with warmth and constancy
giving comfort without cloy and light without glare
and asking nothing. 

That we choose is ours and ours alone
and our fate we freely hold
until another's gift we enviously eye
and see that choice can have its edge.

The cutting winds of nascent March
bend the trees in gleeful rage
stripping buds and breaking boughs
to build its hard and bitter stage.

On which it prances proud and stern
giving out of seasons cold
playing parts both good and bad
and caring less as it grows old.

Until at last it's April's part
and soughing mild replaces chill
to rain and song the stage is given
and golden blooms the branches fill.

Now the year turns new to newer
a glowing carpet swells the host
the biting act is wholly done
and Spring's the star we cheer the most.