shells sang subtle songs
as wishes walked upon land


sinking beneath waves

but wishes are three
neither more than triplicate

yearning happiness

Ambrosial nectars entice
                young minds to venture


close within hungers sweet grasp.

I  was a funeral pyre for there disillusions. All arched in collective
fragmentation of what transpired within the variation of echoes that
collected upon them. Like voices on a beach of shells shattering harmoniously they fell like sheets cleaved from a washing line.

I just looked, my voice rippling across the street of what I was perceiving, they were now not mesmerised by the effigy of
my features but know they fled. Neither walking but unattached
to what was perceived. Their stares blank cavities of nothingness.

Wondering within what could be perceived as a pastel painting,
things where they were meant to be, but!!
Slightly
              out of focus, windows were like breath had been woven
within there frame of reflection. Random verses collected then
like a candle they were melting into the mist collecting till nothing.

The focus of my mind was that it wasn't just the images of aged personality woven with the fabric of this place but images of
children in happiness then contorted within what could be perceived
as loneliness. they walked alone hand out like in a needing of
what couldn't be complicity conceived.

Some were against formations  of what were perceived as walls,
but looking upon them, more like memories coalescing  into tight
collects. Were these the structures of lives lived not formed into
a accumulation  of reflections? I bent down to talk to these echoes
of what i perceived as children and they cried memories on my palms.

**To Be Continued

We are puddles that some times collect into perfect moments,
and other times boulders of anxiety deluge us
                                                    and the ripples wash upon us
like a concussion of time.

But ripples will fade,
and we will become once again smooth
                                                                ­  for as long as we can be.

Colour by numbers,

             crimson shades are bleached.
To much went over the lines

Placebo desolations were lingering in
far flung reserves of blind
                                             conciseness.

Debilitating truths were a shiny pedestal
that hung high like a noose
                                               tempting
Them to climb upon the branches and
                                                  hang silently.  

Like magpies,
shiny things caught their innocence,
like sheep they were herded by a lie
                                     that tasted bitter sweet

My thoughts are coalescing in a web of frustration,
I linger on the walls that are as blank as my memories
of a happier time. I write in tipp-ex, white washing the
words wrote in red pen that bled from my finger-tips.

Syllables verse so much when adhering with word and
reflections of who we  are. But mine are shallow puddles
of nothingness that are only filled with tears,
consolidating my hollowness crumbling within my tears.

Collect the words like breadcrumbs, they weren't fresh but slightly
past a sell by date of needed listening. I've died inside so many
times to be resurrected each morning devours me a little bit more,
the pills fall like raindrops in the puddle of my mind.