to be real
in a false
world

is like wearing
a corset made
of your own
bones

your heart
weakly beating
beneath your
armour

it pulses red
fist shaped
and ready
to fight

the creatures
that lurk
like spectres
in the dark
corners of
your mind

it's not up
to you if
you win
this fight

only you
try, you
try, you
try

if he is such an angel
then why do i see him
in my nightmares?

i know he rules over
sweet dreams and
fantasies, but he is
not in my dreams.
only in my memories.

so the moon rises
another night,
and i say to him,
hello there,
the angel from
my nightmares.

He was in a cafe across the tracks,
Leaning against an ancient, crumbling brick wall
The sun hung low through the window showing off a gold halo in his hair
On his lap he held his six string,
Gently strumming a soft tune
She watched, from just inside the brick archway
The guitar mans lips were red as a bleeding rose
He gave her a glance, sideways, showing her a colour of blue she'd never seen before
Her breathing stopped
Moving forward, entranced, toward the strumming siren
She couldn't help herself
Her deft movements, won her a second glance, and half a smile
Yet, still he played on
And it became clear then, he already held his only love
He was, after all,
A guitar man

If to Fear we would succumb,
Nothing then would we become.