fish, locally caught
a neighbours gift

still wriggling
just as smeagol likes them

A strange pattern for
writing has come
to me lately.
The skeletons of
poems form when I
lie down for a nap.
Sleep always calls,
and bones want to
dance and grow skin.
Lilacs bloom, and I feel
the inner thigh of
eternity, soft and wet.

I can't get any rest.
I have to jot down the
notes or they turn
to ashes and blow away,
or, they are buried deep in
mud and slumber,
impossible to dig up.

I sleep with a notebook and
pen, as I drift off,
I whisper to the tortured
bones,
don't cry and try not to worry.
I'll bring you to life.

deafening corruption
on a world stage

pulling levers
to mask your sins

a corrupted soul
nowhere to hide

many say that to literally drop dead is the way to go
but I am not so sure and in the end who knows.

murdering criminals are not blind to their deceit
they just suppose having done it all their life
what else would anyone expect

a sickly smile loaded with arrogance
across the face of defeat

ghostly memories
folk departed

a reaching in
from eternity

ghostly touches
goosebump skin