a flowering reveal
myriad coloured secrets

lovers surprise
red roses

silence makes herself known
gentle as a Dove
-she descendes

Your poison
A disruptive type,
You believe your
Social media
And all of the hype.
You are not kind
This social media
Phenomenon
Has narrowed
Your mind.
When your texting
Becomes a digital hurt,
These mobile friends
will quickly dessert.

My brain echoes with the sound of your silence
Your flowers have yellowed into grey decay
Walk through our door once again, I beg

But the grave is cold and holds your remains
Only my brain holds the echoes of the proof
That you lived a life with me

signals reverberating
ever expanding circles

some, shockwaves
others, gentle reminders

{ FREEDOM  “We may want to linger, to stay, to arrest the flow and talk about it, photograph it, lyricize it. Yet this beauty is mercurial and we must let it go, for it is already slipping away to be replaced by the new.” -Stuart Sovatsky }


YELLOW FIELD OF WHEAT


Angel of Death skims blacker than tar
a skeletal knock overturning bowl of oats
smelling of frankincense and ashes
to carry you to a yellow field of wheat
where you will dance radiant waltzes
haloed free

your laughter pranced across blue walls with
Michael Jackson, Spider-Man and cheeky elves
relishing Kentucky Fried Chicken as you
played scrabble with forlorn neighbour
your bony body birthing revolutions of
roulette with green life and grey death

how you endured those precision needles
wanting to instead drum tapered fingers on
waiting desk overflowing with car sketches
your thirteen year old bald head smiling
veins on an enchanting spring moon as our
hidden tears crystallised hospital sheets

we tried to keep up with you scoffing
encyclopaedias, Dickens and muffins alike
cancer like a chess game mastered chemo
doctors and nurses becoming kings or pawns
time in the now or endless pathos stalking
Laurel and Hardy keeping our hearts unlocked

on Merlin’s star-patterned couch you will
jokingly converse with Pele and his team
soccer ball silent under quiescent table
my ink cannot pen sad lines as I feel your
lips still ******* for warm dripping milk
your freedom moonwalks on a yellow field of wheat


©GhairoDanielsPoetry2012