You took my hand and asked me to dance,
But I was far too tired to do so,
The simple act of walking being far beyond
My limited capabilities at that point.
I had been reduced to hugs and kisses,
And tales of how glorious my past lives had been,
And holding hands.

I wondered if I should let go- it seemed so different,
From any I'd ever held before, that hand.
For years I'd held others with the sole
Intention of drawing pain away-
I am not capable of creating happiness,
And I've never claimed otherwise.

Your hand had no pain to draw away though,
Or at least none that I could find,
Which startled me (All the others held so much!)
I had thought I knew all there was to know about hands-
Their needs, and all the varieties they come in.
How they all needed comforting in different ways
For similar ailments- grief, loneliness,
Heartbreak, being among the most common.
I'd even learnt to hold phantoms limbs for a few.
I'd move the pain aside, lessen it, or sometimes
Even take it as my own, releasing it when no-one else was looking,
Into a stone, or an abandoned old house.

But your hand simply said "I am here to be held."
It shocked me so much I didn't realise I was
Walking again. You glided gracefully ahead
As I clunked behind, unsure of myself,
Holding on to you, trying to figure you out
In the short window of opportunity I had left.

I saw it as our interlocked fingers departed.
Somewhere in the webbing between your ring
And index fingers on your left hand
Was what I had been searching for all along.
I won't go into detail about what I saw
(Our pain is no-one's business but our own),
But I saw it though, far more beautifully arranged
Than I thought was ever possible,
Noticing you had stolen some of mine
When I wasn't looking, and wondering
How much damage I had done.

I don't know whether I danced with you or not,
The release answered so much while
Explaining not quite enough.
I watched you, enraptured by the way
The pain never once showed
Through those beautiful, happy eyes,
Which never seemed to break.

Now I wonder if I had held your palm
Not too little, but far too much.
The pain I saw was labelled thus-
"Life experiences- Please don't touch
All is well. Please remain calm."

this time has finished me.
I feel like the German troops
whipped by snow and the communists
walking bent
with newspapers stuffed into
worn boots.
my plight is just as terrible.
maybe more so.
victory was so close
victory was there.
as she stood before my mirror
younger and more beautiful than
any woman I had ever known
combing yards and yards of red hair
as I watched her.
and when she came to bed
she was more beautiful than ever
and the love was very very good.
eleven months.
now she's gone
gone as they go.

this time has finished me.
it's a long road back
and back to where?
the guy ahead of me
falls.
I step over him.
did she get him too?

I like to think of myself as a piece of paper,
Delicate,
Easily scrunched into a ball
And disposed of,
With ease you can punch
A hole through me,
I can be torn apart
At the hands of another
And be discarded.

But as fragile as I may appear,
I also possess strength that no one
Could ever conjure in their head.
I absorb ink,
Preserving the overwhelming
Creativity that flows,
I can be folded
Over and over again
Until I am an origami masterpiece,
I can be the vessel
Of vast knowledge,
Used as a means of holding
Secrets that everybody
Wants hidden.

The best part is,
Is that I can be recycled,
No matter how many times
I am broken down
I am transformed,
And every essence,
Every fibre of my being
Exists in every corner
Of the world.

I sprint through fire
But it's never enough,
To keep the blood pumping
To keep up the rush,

To work up a sweat
And purge all the waste,
The insatiable thirst
For a relentless chase,

The thrill of a hunt
For beauty and art,
To inject through the skin
And into the heart,

Exorcise all evil
And shatter the chains,
Of a beautiful mind
That was branded insane.

You see that sheaf of slender books
Upon the topmost shelf,
At which no browser ever looks,
Because they're by . . . myself;
They're neatly bound in navy blue,
But no one ever heeds;
Their print is clear and candid too,
Yet no one ever reads.

Poor wistful books! How much they cost
To me in time and gold!
I count them now as labour lost,
For none I ever sold;
No copy could I give away,
For all my friends would shrink,
And look at me as if to say:
"What waste of printer's ink!"

And as I gaze at them on high,
Although my eyes are sad,
I cannot help but breathe a sigh
To think what joy I had -
What ecstasy as I would seek
To make my rhyme come right,
And find at last the phrase unique
Flash fulgent in my sight.

Maybe that rapture was my gain
Far more than cheap success;
So I'll forget my striving vain,
And blot out bitterness.
Oh records of my radiant youth,
No broken heart I'll rue,
For all my best of love and truth
Is there, alive in you.