My words became
knives.
A paragraph,
a sword.
And when I
made
my first speech,
the room
                was
                        hit
                             with
                                            a
                                                    grenade.

Sometimes at night I can taste her
on my lips. Passion; strong coffee
and warm, soft kisses.

It fades quickly, like the lingering
of a delicate perfume in an  empty
room and I  miss it  when  it  goes,
but  I'm  just too tired  to  chase  it.

So elusive she is, so lovely, but the
quiet  madness of it  all leaves  me
breathless.

Enter  each  day expecting  that the
happenings of the day may contain
a clandestine message addressed to
you personally.
                                                                                          Jon York   2022

As the tide turned
history was re-written
the victors wrote their name in the sand
and the losers washed out to sea
all was calm or so it seemed
the wind whipped up
white horses charged in a line
at the sand, full of castles, standards flying
children pointing
nothing was spared by the seventh wave

in the pursuit of your dreams
arm yourself
for the nightmares.