I want to fly somewhere,
a Mediterranean beach, an ancient village with a plaza.
I want to watch the seabirds dive for fish
and scuba dive through a coral reef.
I want to sit in a hut on an atoll
and relax in front of a calm blue sea.
A Greek island with bright white houses
or a Cypriot villa on a barren hill.
There is a world out there undiscovered;
a map only shows the outlines,
I want to see what lies within.
I want a holiday and share the experience
with the only person in the world I love.

The hotel sits just off Main Street,
between the hospital and the *******.
It’s walls covered in ivy and the front gates
held together by rust and century-old bolts.
The wind whistles through the broken windows
when it travels north from the cemetery.
The old folks in the town tell tales
of curses, witchcraft, devil-worship and ******.
The young folks don’t believe in any of that any more,
old gods forgotten in time, but none venture inside,
the building giving off a sickening feeling.


The grand foyer is overgrown with nature,
the slick walls nurturing the flora.
Rain drips in from the holes in the ceiling,
neglect and time exposing the beams and rafters,
a man-made cave unexplored for decades,
wiped off the map and replaced with a blank space.
It’s dark in here despite the valiant attempt
of an early afternoon sun bursting with light.
A grand staircase rises into darkness
and seems to split in two directions,
to the east wing and the west.
Most stories told about this place were set in room 77,
follow the hallway into the east wing,
at the end take another staircase on your right,
into another hallway, sixteenth door on the left.


The second number seven on the door has fallen off,
leaving behind it the memory of the gold,
that missing number not on the floor, long gone,
taken by a brave soul on a dare.
The door is warm to the touch,
the door to room 76 is cold,
as is 75, 74, 73, 72.
The hallway smells of abandonment, that sickly wet smell
that a gravestone gives off after a thunderstorm.
Maybe it’s the lichen and moss growing on the walls
that gives off this horrible smell of not-quite-dead
but it does not drown out the quiet laughter
coming from behind the warm door of room 77.


The door creaks open, silencing the giggling;
it sounded like children, perhaps, or bats disturbed.
The curtains are drawn so everything within
is hidden from the view of the living.
It smells different in here, like a forest
that hasn’t seen rain for weeks.
It is stifling in the room but the radiators are ****-cold.
Water starts running in the bathroom en suite,
the giggling starting up again, definitely children.
Floorboards damp with the moisture in the air
crack underfoot and cause the laughter to stop again.
In the en suite, the hot water tap is running,
water splashing out of the basin and onto the floor.
The water in the toilet bowl is green with algae
and the smell of ozone is burning hot.


Back in the room, an old photograph of a crossroads
hangs above the bed and it feels uneasy,
as if the photo is telling a story of this room,
that deals were done here as they were there,
selling souls for a gift, cheated out of a raw deal.
Dust swirls and spirals in a vortex in the air.
The door to the room slams shut.
There is a dressing gown hanging on to a hook
that barely has any strength left in it,
and just then, the hook falls out of the door,
sending both it and the dressing gown to the floor.
The mood in that room swiftly changes.


Drawn on the door in chalk is a pentagram,
a crude representation of the Sigil of Baphomet.
Beneath that, an inverted cross with Yeshua written beneath it.
From near the window on the other side of the room,
a hot breath materialises and the curtains close.
In that darkness, footsteps heavy and slow approach
as the laughter rises and fills the room with raw terror.
A deep, gravelly voice grinds its way through the air
and speaks in a tongue not heard in millennia.
יֵצֶר לֵב הָאָדָם רַע
The floor opens up into an abyss and the world falls away.


The old folks in the town tell tales
of curses, witchcraft, devil-worship and ******.
The young folks don’t believe in any of that any more.

We know how the universe will end now,
black holes swallowing up all matter
until darkness reigns and time slows down.
The black holes will evaporate
once every particle in the universe is swallowed up
and ejected as radiation,
then the universe will freeze and time stops forever.
That is why I have the urge to hold your hand sometimes,
when we look up at midnight and see the stars,
twinkling silently completely oblivious to their fate.
It’s good to feel loved now and again,
knowing how everything will one day be gone,
feeling the warmth of your palm in mine,
battling the universe in a war we cannot hope to win.
We can win this battle though,
a snapshot of the moment where we didn’t care.
These little pieces of time never fade away,
no black hole could ever overcome fragments like these.

There is a constellation in your eye
and no stargazer knows about it.
It has no name, no profound meaning
and no adjective exists to describe it.
Only I know it’s there
and I won’t tell my secret to anyone.

It’s the end of the world again but who cares anymore?
We’re too busy enjoying the time we have left.
There’s a war brewing and it’s getting closer
but the bombs don’t **** us, we dance in the shrapnel,
the metal’s already in our blood.

It’s the end of the world again but we’re too busy singing
songs of a time where we were safe in our homes.
We’re drinking beer and laughing at good times,
the ones that have been and gone
and the ones we have yet to have.

It’s the end of the world again but the fighting means nothing.
Bullets sing “Revolution!” in the air
as they buzz like ******* flies by our ears.
Let the idiots **** themselves and rejoice
in the fact that we are better than them,
howling under the watchful eyes of a blood moon.

Confined in a cage with no marker
to tell people walking past who I am.
They live their lives without me,
too caught up in their own games
to worry about those desperate to be seen.
I sit here, alone, in the company of nothing,
not even dreams offer to show themselves here.

Everyone is out having fun,
I not allowed an invite to the show.
They show what they were up to
not realising they are rubbing my face in it.
"Look how much fun we had. You should have been there."
I could have been there if only you asked.

I feel worn out now, like my bones
have been sanded down with disappointment
and the shavings swept under the rug.
One or two might notice the lump
but before long, enough people walk over it
and it soon disappears until the next one.

Wave upon wave of euphoria miss me.
I’m starting to get tired of being missed out,
friends out dancing under the moonlight
while I sit in shadows by my silent phone,
waiting to hear about how someone else’s night went.
They never ask about mine because they already know,
they left me behind with my broken brain
and ******* hatred for everything they are.

Singing songs in the car with the roof down,
hands up in the air pushing against the wind,
Bon Jovi on the radio and you don’t care anymore,
lost in the moment as your brain creates another memory,
one you’ll remember for years to come.
You will smile like you are just now,
not a care in the world, enjoying life as it is,
going nowhere fast with your heart calling shotgun.
The wind dances in your hair and you look wild
and that is why I love you,
because you will never be tamed and I never want you to be,
in this fleeting moment you are perfect
and our memories of this day will be the same,
we were happy and content and we still are,
living forever like the stars that align in your eyes.

It will be summer soon,
just another week or so
where you will rise each morning
brighter than the sun
and you will smile at the wide blue sky
as it keeps you calm and safe.
Your stress will vanish
as the world offers itself once more,
letting you explore her hidden treasures.

It will be summer soon,
just another week or so
where you will sing to the wind,
a song only you can hear,
where the words don’t matter
because you’re too relaxed to care.
In another week or so,
things will be pretty good from then.

We are our own universe,
made inside the furnaces of exploding stars.
That is more profound to me than clay.
Clay is of this earth, bound by gravity
to this tiny speck of dust.
We are more than that,
we are made of suns.
We don’t just live within the universe,
the universe lives within us.
Let that starlight out,
let the universe know we’re here
and that we’re good,
we’re kind,
we’re worth having around,
we’re deserving of our place here,
we’re gentle
and calm
and happy
and loving.

We are more than the sum of our parts,
more than empty vessels of atoms,
more than hateful,
spiteful,
jealous,
war-mongering little creatures.
We have hearts that beat
to a rhythm the universe provides.
We are our own gods,
our own devils,
our own sacrifices
and our own dreams.
The universe is waiting with open arms
to welcome back its lost children.
We are the universe observing itself subjectively.
Put on a show worth watching.

Open your eyes in the middle of the night
and catch a glimpse of the shadow from
the streetlight outside your window run for cover.
Listen for its footsteps as it creeps down your hallway,
taking shelter in the cupboard at the top of the stairs.
You want to get up and investigate,
but that fear you feel is immaculate.

You slip into your dressing gown and open your bedroom door;
the creak of the hinges tumbles into the darkness
as you try to catch your breath from escaping into a scream.
The door of the cupboard is ever-so-slightly ajar
and you know there is nothing in there,
just a bunch of towels that have never been used in years,
but that little whisper rises in the back of your head
that something else has made a home in there.

You put your trembling hand on the handle,
trying to avoid looking into the black coming through the gap.
Do you open it quick or take it slow,
allow what might be inside a chance to escape?
You don’t know what to do and tonight you’re alone.
The low grunt of a floorboard behind you.
Old hands as ancient as the universe rest on your shoulders.
She turns you around and you stare into her eyes,
your life reflecting in them.
The door creaks open behind you.
There is no point struggling, there is no subtext.
Take it in your stride.
Take it in your stride.

You pulled the last straw from my palm
and now there is nothing left to hold.
I hope you never come to any harm
and that you’re graceful when you’re old.

I wrote a goodbye song for you
but only my failing memories could hear me sing.
In the distant future, whatever you do,
I hope you grow like saplings in the Spring.

there are no more words left. the dictionary spills its ink like wine. try to lap it up but it tastes like poison. i write your name in the air with my finger but i misspell it and the magic is lost. you drift away like flotsam from a capsized ship and you left me clinging to cardboard. you made me drown. you made the world go dark. you made me believe that there were more to dreams than mere fantasy. you made me believe they had substance, they were messages from the future, they were attainable, they were not just dreams but visions. you made me see what wasnt there. there are no more words left.

“I spy with my little eye, something beginning with W.”
“Water.”
“Yep. I spy with my little eye, something beginning with S.”
“Sky.”
“Yep. I spy with my little eye, something beginning with W.”
“Water.”
“Yep. I spy with…”

It just goes on and on, ceaselessly sailing towards another shade of blue.
A cloud, white against the heavens, floats by.
I want it to stop right above me, shelter me from this incessant colour.
It carries on, ignoring my waving arms.

I even dream of it, blue walls, blue ceiling, dripping wet.
Out of the window I look, eyes staring at more blue;
azure, indigo, ultramarine, aquamarine, cobalt and Prussian,
variations on a navy theme.

A storm gathers in the distance, beautiful grey.
Skyscrapers rise on the horizon, beautiful shapes.
A speedboat skips past on the waves, beautiful sounds.
A city offers itself to me, beautiful sights.

I see you running through a forest,
every tree you pass withers and dies.
I know you’re being chased by something
but gone are the days where I actually cared.
Even though those trees are right before my eyes,
nothing’s quite as dead to me as you.

Even though you seem to be a dream within a dream,
an apparition of a ghost hunting my sanity,
I cannot seem to go a night without dreaming of your heart.
The days are getting colder and the birds all turn to rust,
all we can muster to say is that everything returns to dust,
yet through all this rain and fog and misery something remains true,
nothing’s quite as dead to me as you.

When all the world is quiet
and everyone’s fast asleep,
my heart still sings
a little lullaby for you.
*******.
*******.
*******.

I wish I didn’t dream of you last night.
My heart cannot stand to dream another day with you.
I just want to rest my head and slip away from the light.

The days grow long and the sun rides high and bright,
crawling slowly through the sky with nothing else to do.
I wish I didn’t dream of you last night.

My eyes grow weary with age and incessant sight,
crying tears of pain under that bright sky so blue.
I just want to rest my head and slip away from the light.

I wish I could sleep soundly but I have no more fight
left in me and although I hope it is not true,
I wish I didn’t dream of you last night.

I try as hard as I can, with all my might,
but each day rises with thoughts of you anew.
I just want to rest my head and slip away from the light.

I have nothing left inside me, because this blight
gave my heart wings and beyond my dreams it flew.
I wish I didn’t dream of you last night,
I just want to rest my head and slip away from the light.

There is a little songbird in my heart,
waiting for release.
It sings a song for a woman I love
so very dear.
Trapped in silence behind those bars
blind in the dark.
It sits alone on its perch of stone
pining for your love.
I wish to free it for all to see
the beauty I hide within,
but you’re too far away to hear
the song it sings for you.

Paper memories crumbled up on the floor
within my mind.
The dust of time, piled up high,
lullabies at dusk.
My heart, it aches, for sweet release
of that pretty bird.
My mind, it burns, for satisfaction
of a love returned.
Keeps dreaming up these fantasies
never to be fulfilled.
That songbird hiding in my heart
needs more room to grow.

I don’t deserve a friend like you,
but there you are, always listening,
always looking out for me.
You give me shelter during the storm,
a safe port to anchor my leaking hull,
a big oak tree to protect me from the rain.

I look up at the stars sometimes
and hate them for being
so beautiful and far away.
Then you walk by like a supernova
and suddenly the stars don’t seem so far away.

You lie in the sun radiating grace,
and I am mesmerised by how
your eyes collect the sunlight like they were miracles.
You calm me with your words,
and I throw them back at you
because I don’t learn, but I will.

I don’t deserve a friend like you,
but I appreciate that you are.
Despite all I say and do to the contrary,
I will always be your friend,
never far away, wishing you all the luck in the world.

Forgotten, gathering dust at the back of a shelf,
my autobiography, folded pages and spine battered.
All the pages are empty,
the ink long ago dried up and vanished.
Who needs enemies when you have friends like these?

This old house, made of the bones of memories,
sits on top of a dark hill
overlooking a river that runs black.
The lawn is yellow, patchy,
even the weeds don’t grow well.
I’ve heard of the stories about this house,
that it’s inhabited by the ghosts
of bitter words and the starvation of hope.
I used to live in this old house
on top of the dark hill.
I’m the only one who escaped.

The kitchen is fully stocked,
boxes of cereal on the counter
covered in several years’ worth of dust,
cobwebs crowding the top of the windows.
My brother died in this room when he was six,
choked to death on a sweet,
I having left the packet unattended.
Don’t know if he’s still running around
in the memory of this place anymore,
I can’t feel him here causing mischief.

The living room floor is covered in old books,
Dostoevsky, Dickens, Bierce and Wilde.
The Devil’s Dictionary sits proudly on the coffee table
but I doubt even the Devil has a word for what happened here.
My father hanged himself from the ceiling fan,
after work, his tie round his neck.
I had caused the death of my brother a few weeks before
and I don’t think my father could take it anymore.
He never left a note, never attempted to absolve me
of any guilt I may have felt, he just threw his hands up in defeat.

Up the old staircase, creaking like it always used to do,
so out of breath for something so stationary,
exerting tremendous energy keeping us upright and upward bound.
The bathroom door is still open, the light not working.
No window in here, feels more like a prison now.
This is where my mother, after drinking a glass of wine
to wash down a few too many antidepressants,
drowned as she listened to my father’s favourite song.
I could hear the music through the door
and heard her submerge beneath the gentle waves of her swaying foot,
but I made no attempt to stop her.
You fight a losing battle if you try to halt the passage of time.

Into what may have once been my bedroom.
The Batman sheets still on my bed,
the smell of night terrors still clinging on
to the musty thick air of fear and tragedy.
This is where I knew I would die, beside my family,
at peace with all the universe could ever throw at me.
This is where it should all come full circle,
where I caused so much pain and grief through a minor mistake.
I have heard the rumours about this old house
on top of the dark hill, ghosts of memories,
flocks of dead birds swarming overhead.
The crying heard during the night in a room no one can find.
The splashing of water in an empty bathtub.
The man on the bed staring down infinity.

Don’t come to this old house,
there is nothing here.

I want to feel the wind in my hair one last time,
wave my hand in the currents,
recite all the words to all the songs I know.
I want you there by my side
to share the experience,
share the journey,
racing the sun for the horizon
one last time.

I want to tell you all the things I never could,
kiss the breath from your mouth
and touch you in a way I never had the courage to do.
We’d drive forever and a day,
running from nothing,
chasing everything,
all the dreams we had
that we never asked the universe for.

How I wish you were here allaying my fears.
Instead, you’re somewhere just out of reach,
beyond the limits of my eyes,
dancing to a song stuck in your heart.
I must drive without you,
listening to every song but yours,
as that mantra keeps playing in my ears.

Nothing like the open road.
Nothing like the open road.
Nothing like the open road.

You slipped at the beach yesterday
and today you’re waiting for death to come
in that ******* hearse with your name
written in flowers and wreaths.
Make him fight
Make him fight
Make him fight

You slipped at the beach yesterday
and now you could leave at any moment,
leaving me alone in this cold grey world
to fight both our battles.
I’ll do you right
I’ll do you right
I’ll do you right

You slipped at the beach yesterday
and now the beach doesn’t seem like such a lovely place,
the laughter of children now sounds derisory
as it melts with the roar of the waves.
Sweetheart goodnight
Sweetheart goodnight
Sweetheart goodnight

You slipped at the beach yesterday
and seeing my queen unresponsive and calm
with wires in your arms, part of the machine,
the sounds of beasts in my head.
Follow the light
Follow the light
Follow the light

More of these celebrities
cascading through the TV screen
selling me **** I don’t want
telling me how to live
how to donate for starving kids
in a country they’d never heard of.
Look at their eyes,
nothing. Nothing there.
Vapid curiosities
the lot of them.
They fascinate me,
in the way a kitten
is fascinated by a bug.

Look at those eyes,
nothing there.
Death in a fur coat
and high heels.
Mascaraed with hairbrushes.
I can’t see myself
bedding someone like that.
For once,
I don’t hate myself enough.

Get rid of the deadwood,
they say, these self-help books
ripping me off
and every other sucker out there.
We need all the friends
we can get in this
**** world we’re in.
Forget those books,
marketed for idiots
who can’t think for themselves.
Need help getting far
in this world?
A bit of advice?
Two words to make all those
books obsolete:
be lucky.
Van Gogh, Poe, Galileo,
Kafka and Darger.
Five right there who worked
their ***** off and were left
with nothing but disdain
or poverty or loneliness.
They weren’t lucky enough in this
**** world we’re in.

All these big houses
with the lights off,
empty of life
empty of love
empty of hope
and dreams
and laughter
and delight.

Where do these houses end
and I begin?

I have a
hole cut out
of my heart
in the
shape of
you

I have a
tree bearing
fruit and
they fall
only for
you.

I have a
fire burning
in my soul
and it
burns for
you.

I have a
dream where I
run towards
figures that
look like
you.

I have a hole in the wall of my heart
in the shape of
you.

Money money money money money ******* money. You think you’ll find happiness there. Happiness doesn’t buy you things, doesn’t take you out to dinner. Happiness doesn’t sit prettily on your finger or hang from your earlobes or rest around your neck. Happiness doesn’t have an engine and four wheels that takes you wherever you want to go. Happiness doesn’t add an extra comma or two to your bank account. Happiness doesn’t buy things to make you look beautiful or feel special.
               Happiness holds your hand when you feel down. Happiness cooks for you when you can’t be bothered. Happiness tells you jokes and laughs at yours and when you make eye-contact, happiness keeps it and smiles back. Happiness tells you you’ll pull through. Happiness walks hand-in-hand into the darkness with you without any apprehension.
               Happiness is a seed. You plant it and water it, watch as its roots take hold and the sapling breaks the surface. You nurture the fledgling stem as it grows over time into a huge and beautiful tree. It shelters you from the sun during summer and offers refuge from the snow in winter. It protects you from all the bad things. It gives and gives and gives unconditionally, asking nothing in return. It does not wander off to better climes. You will always find it exactly where you left it. It is your companion in an otherwise barren landscape.
               But I am a dead tree, useless and ugly. I haven’t produced leaves in years. I offer no shelter, just shadows of possibilities on the ground. I harbour no birds. No deer eat my bark. I will fall and all around no ears shall hear. I am not your happiness nor anyone else’s. Just a mess of sticks, not even any use for firewood.

I’m swimming in the
Darkness of your undertow
And I can’t escape the
Pull of your gravity.

People ask how it
Feels existing in
Someone else’s
Shadow. It’s cold

And wet down
Here in the hole
Of a heart beating
To another rhythm.

Can’t come up for
Air, just get dragged
Back down to that
Immutable darkness

Where I spend the
Best hours of my
Days, the best years
Of my short life.

You just drag me
Along, another shadow
Cast out behind
You, luring others

Towards a sad,
Lonely little existence.
The trick is to stop
Kicking and smile.

Summer storms brewed a darkness above our heads,
swelling our egos with the rains of a thousand nights.
The bright lights of the distant city
seemed to breathe in the downpour
as the fire I set in your heart died a cold death.

They say the past generations danced naked
amongst the old stones of the ancients
but you and I stood cold and grave
between the markers of the dead without name.
As lilies floated solemn on a still pond,
the fire you set in my heart died a cold death.

I looked at you and you looked at me,
countless years slipping away in a blink.
All of my hopes extinguished when your gaze lands elsewhere.
Despite all of my longing and wanting,
I still find it difficult to leave this land of dreams,
where the fires we set in each other’s hearts never died a cold death.

There is a man with a grave in his head
and he wanders from town to town,
singing songs of crows and death and God.
Some say he is an undertaker,
some say he is a vessel of the devil,
but they all agree that he means them harm.
There is a man with blood on his name.

A child of six finds him by the mercat cross
with a stare that chills his brittle bones.
The sun rises up with a limp
and casts his shadow long and gaunt
and fragile and black.
He offers out a smile
but it grimaces
and forms a dark, crooked sneer.
There will be death here by noon.

Church bells and raised voices
gather above the rooftops
and descend as black rain,
like tar, sticky and oily.
They have made their choice.
Weapons are gathered
and war songs penned
and faces painted blue and red.
There will be death within the hour.

A confrontation of silence and conflagration.
He sits there, still, momentarily lost
in the warning call of a fantasist
with a pen too small for his ideas.
The crowd before him swells even further,
nervous anger and shaking knives.
He stands up quick,
and the villagers twitch as a single entity.
He holds up one bony finger.
One body.
One is all he needs.
There is a bloodbath.

He sits alone surrounded by people,
blood forming patterns in the grass and gravel,
like Point de Venise.
He clicks an impressed tut
and takes his belongings off his cart.
It is too small today.
He will have to make several trips.
And all the while,
hour after hour,
day after day,
that smile will never leave his scarred face.

“I walk hand-in-hand with darkness,” he began,
the man with no eyes.
“You have no idea of the horrors I have seen,
of the fears that have touched my soul,
the hurt of a love lost in a dark night.”
The children sat still.

“Death is the only guarantee in your lives;
she is the only thing to bet on and win every time.
I have seen her carry away so many lives now
I become convinced I will be visited personally next.”
The children fidgeted, uncomfortable and unsure.

“If you want happiness, **** yourselves whilst you are still children,
when you are naïve to the ways of the real world.”
A parent attempted an interjection.
The children stared, confused.

“The meaning of life is obscured by sorrow.
You are learning in the kindergarten of woe.
Insecurities run your engine.
Prejudice snuffs your fire.
By peering into the gaping maw of that tarry, endless black,
you appreciate how easy it is to
Just
Let
Go.”
A child began to sob,
more at the tone of the eyeless man’s voice
than the syllables and interpretations of those sounds.
Parents gathered around an imaginary fire,
faces facing faces facing faces
and shadows hid a smile on one.
A devil always hides in a band of angels,
“…blood-stained angels…”

The knives cut and sliced and soon
the next-generation abattoir housed but two.
A storyteller and his demons
laughing at the wolf moon,
young bones breaking under foot.
Wine glasses full of young blood
and shards of everlasting death.
The man with no eyes embraces his demons
and slips silently into the paralysing void,
his laugh spilling into the still of the night.

The night holds no surprises
for the darkness-embracers,
the captains of ships of fools.
They cast away light
as they seek to find themselves
in the mangled branches
of a fig tree
as it envelops them.
They find holes in the bark
and dare to reach inside,
fearless of the serrated teeth
they hope to find within.

The trees devour them.






Their dead hands reach for dirt,
clawing themselves from the roots.
They scream from stitched mouths,
muffled and agonising.
Rigor mortis of the eyelids




seeing you for what you are.




I can feel your hand creep into mine.
Your grip is tight
and palms sweaty,
a shaky embrace,
fear rising in goosebumps
or is it the cold?,
or the fear of growing old
that terrifies you so.


I am here for you,

treading wearily
into the gaping maw
of a

very dark place.

If I could get you out of my head I surely would.
These sleepless nights are worrisome;
those dark walls cave in, relentless,
jagged spires and grotesques
and stained glass malignancies
crumble upon me;
I am not calm.

I see your face in grey clouds and windowpanes.
Somewhere, sometime, I think of you;
do you think of me? I think
not. Not
now not
never ever ever. You are not the first.

But you've taken a seat, made yourself at home,
and I smell you on the air;
I taste you in the food,
fresh and young and lively.
You make me dream
and I hate you for it.

I have no time for dreaming when my heart flutters so.
They are false prophecies;
I do not dream at Delphi
and I have no intention to do so.
Do you dream there?

I imagine you would respond with a particular kind of silence,
the one where the words are there
but do not need to be heard.
Your eyes would speak.
They would look at me with a peculiar pity;
and I would know in that fatal glance
that I would never have a chance
to gaze into them again.

I would rather you were a friend than nothing at all,
a tired acquaintance,
a deadlock of emotions;
I do not want to checkmate them,
just let them know they have another move,
towards me, foretells that particular prophesy.
Ha
Ha

I see your face in grey clouds and windowpanes.
I would rather you were a friend than nothing at all.
I imagine you would respond with a particular kind of silence.
I have no time for dreaming when my heart flutters so.
If I could get you out of my head I surely would.
But you've taken a seat, made yourself at home.