Conjure up prismatic realities
To pacify
The Unscratchable itch
Of want
With words doused in artifice
Fervour in the palm of hands
Brimming in fingertips
Lay awaste

The horizon gleams
With the sight of burgeoning despair
The halt of calm
Reason devouring the
The ephemeral mist of utopia
Razors edge has always cradled
And contained
The incorrigible dreamer

Saudade knocks on your door
Whispering September's forgotten promise
A spring that blooms
Palpable authenticity.

Passion in my paint
Faded like exhaled breath
On a cold winter’s day
My words stripped
Of their grandeur
In the avalanche of phantom bliss

Disquieting quietude drenches the aftermath
I need this dirge
To spread through like a contagion
Corroding the chimaera of merriment
Primordial saudade
Defiling the canvas with
Blood shot ink
Once more.

If I were to follow my feet
They would lead me to your door
Awash in your everfecence, still
The author of all that has come
To define my path

I emerged from the depths
Of my own volition
Melted into you
Offering my devoted bones respite


You linger at the doorway, still
Slithering into the perforated
Surface of my fragile core
Ever so often
Everything I am is still held by your gaze
Every breath laced with thoughts of you
My sweet

The colour of pearl
Is how I think of you
It will never pass my lips
You are forever.

The day I met you
I woke to find violets
Blooming in the spaces
Between my ribcage
The awakener of spirit
Offering the gift of reprieve
Now safely tucked inside a rememberer's heart

I would have fled my home
Left the door ajar
To run towards loving you boldly
Arms outstretched
I fancied you would return
My devoted bones
Still wanting you  

I still find you hovering
In memories laced with fiction
The ardency of my need
Like the way the frothy sea
Longs for the shore
Uninterrupted in time
Reaching towards never away
Evermore

You were the crimson hue
That incardinined my skies
Setting my core ablaze
Into a raging inferno
The efflorescence of my becoming.

I do not want to be the shadow
Trailing in your wake
Grasping at your impalpable luminescence
Or the tremulous hands tugging
At the hem of your trousers  
I am moth. You are flame
The dying sun in my horizon
I can turn you into poetry
But I cannot make you love me.

Something in the wood took you
I try to find pieces
Of your very being
Tucked beneath some moss rock
Or underground
In burrows of the thick and tangled undergrowth

Amidst a stillness
Tainted by an eerie drone
Suffusing the atmosphere
Traversing a terrain
Devoid of landmarks
I follow faint footprints
A sullen scent
I can hardly recall
A dulled voice
Sifting through the pine  
You are not there
All that remains of you is
An echo of an echo (of an echo).