Took to poetry when I learned
only pain gives perspective.
Happiness an impossible horizon,
fake as a headline,
a mirage, a migraine;
an ever-setting sun.

Mistakes are off-set paths
neither trod nor spoken of before.

Ghosts of old wounds and insults
slew the grain of progression,
each forecast of the future
births one thousand skeletons;
one thousand potential lovers.

An overdose in Dublin,
French lips; a slanted bow.
Blue feathers at the festival;
a taken woman who changes
the colour of her hair
when everything else stays the same.

Took to poetry when I realised
The Moment does not lie
on the tip of the tongue,
nor the beat of the drum,

that sense only comes
long after The Moment has gone.