You stand quite lost, lost in your mind
as a picture does not capture
the austerity of light, in coldest bind.
You seize blind faith as if to say
that nothing works but running stray.

I am no fool but I see no fear;
you won’t walk quick
if I stand near. And getting close
your thoughts now reek, like a starlet;
all cherries and laughter and flushing cheeks.

Puzzled so hard by broken bones
I watch you turn and twist, insist
that only my neck you wish to strangle;
that only my eyes will drown
your sorrows.

In the hall I hear a girl. And the tremble
of a lute;
its melody fluttering from under her door
I taste her sorrow and share its truth.

By dusk we’re quiet as cloaks descend,
a veil so fluffy, there is nothing
only bleak air and the motorways
of our thoughts; which trace the lanes
racing slow across white moors.

My clock is sad, she’s moving so slow
I cannot relax until with joy
I toast
to the vast unknown. A hand
will reach out so lovely, so clean;
and comfort me softly, as harmony leaves.

A pale pink rose sits wilting
  upon the sill of amber light
her lovely thoughts keep shifting. With
   good clear sorrow she smiles
through dust,
and thinks of summer’s fading lust.

A frozen day might seal her fate,
her petals fall in autumn’s wake.
   Yet fearless,
she skips through seasons with haste;
  for no snow can quite chill
       the warmth from her face.

Needles
In golden light I seek my path
through simple woods and shards of glass,
With sighs and sleep I seek to end
the dreary cruelty which now descends.

From veils of pleasure bursts piercing pain,
so lost in wisdom that bears no name;
Wild secrets shimmer beneath cold stars,
not even dreams shall lend a heart.

Whilst in a state of desperate woe,
now in the rain with tears that flow,
no light will shine, no soul will sing;
around the deaths of everything.

And walking breathes a warmth, a plea,
letting the needles swallow me
in aching silence, veins that burn
I listen, alone, to the fate I've earned.

The flame is my passion,
my passion the flame.
Flickering,
intangible:
the light twisted,
insane.

The fire cannot love,
its blue soul has no fear.

As it floats in motion,
I am torn apart,
curious,
the heat on my hand,
a wound in my heart.

No second will slice,
only water, not ice
and love
like coal,
burns out, grows cold.

Little green boxes,
their screams pierce my ears,
their space sears my eyes,
I cannot explain
their shape,
symmetry,
surprise.

Little green boxes,
I cannot escape, four walls
a reminder
of failure to create.

My art
is my eyes,
their gaze, their glare
each seething iris
spills love,
despair.

My days all filled,
I shrink and live;
a half regret
my sight,
unfed.

Never quite sure,
or still, mind sore,
caught up
in fate and folklore,
I can only weep light
so my canvas remains;
still,
heartless.