Don't cry, this kiss is a kiss goodbye.
Don't cling, it's time to part.
Don't look at me nor ask me why
I've taken back my heart.

No questioning, no pleading;
No door remains ajar.
No doubt your heart is bleeding
Now, and wounds of love will scar.

Don't hope to ever turn back time,
Nor resurrect the flame
Of what became a pantomime
Of love, in all but name.

2.19 am.
Another sleepless night in
Clinging sweaty sheets.

Unnoticed by day,
This metronomic ticking
Is thieving my sleep.

It's no use hiding -
My water glass magnifies
The luminous dial.

Ominous red glow,
Like an army on the ridge,
Retreat into dream.

© Marcus Lane 2008

A pin point
Of liquid silver sound
Trickles from

Open sky

Low under leaden feet
The cheated generation
Lies
Present and correct
Rank and file
Row upon row

Dark sockets gape
Where eyes once flared and flinched
Bled and oozed
Then locked their grateful lids
To extinguish Hell

For good

Beneath the sun's glower
I raise mine to
Squint
At the lark

Ascending

A crisp white sheet of
Pristine perfection.
An awakened spring leaf
Unfurls in the crook
Of my arm.

Your new life.

My eye is mirrored
In your liquid pupil
As I stare

Mesmerized

Into a deep pool
Of ancient memory.


© Marcus Lane 2009

Beech trees like cathedral pillars soar
To vaulted ceilings oozing dapple-green,
Where twinkling sunlight, filtering to the floor
Dilutes the dusky darkness in between.

A concert hall, acoustically tuned
To amplify each tremorous touch of stick
On wood, where silent magic is cocooned,
Responding to the scuffled tap and tick

From scrunching undergrowth, where dusty death
And dried decay seep back to nature’s store,
To resuscitate with pungent earthy breath
The spirit of the leafy forest floor.

Earth’s still-born sister

Cast-away
Aborted

Your ghostly image
Pock-marked and pale

Follows

A haloed haunting
Forever drawn
By primitive
Family ties

Shy sibling
Nightly your clouded iris
Averts our gaze

But this evening
In wonderful dilation

You stoop low
To peer

In magnificent bloodshot beauty

At what might have been

© Marcus Lane 2008