my ink-stained fingers
are starting to itch for your touch
these lanky arms miss
encircling your plump waist
my heart no longer feels home
at my own chest

it's strange that i long for
those i've never known

witnessing the beautiful in action
can be a helping hand offered to the helpless
when all other hands are a clenched fist.

There are sweet dreams which sometimes lead
To sadness and pain which sometimes bleed
Into a strange and eerie beauty
Causing the heart and soul to swell
Hovering between heaven and hell
And the deepest shade of blue
Rolls over the infinite truth
Of the sensitivity of being

                                       By Phil Roberts

silence can swallow the Universe
but when it comes to Man

that little wiggling tongue
has a mind all its own

noise is a spoken thunder
jabbering flesh

the smacking of lips
a hiss of the snake.