I hugged the thought of you,
         but the bruise's still hasten
the reflection of me in the mirror.
Was this me, or was this the naughty
boy you told me I was,
                          without a word spoken.

Can I only fall so many times?
          I'm always  tripping over your insecurities?
Why would I be your anger vocalized
on my features
                     never the face.
Where reality sinks in,
showing your guilt,
hidden under a cloth of  luminous pain.

It shines in so many colours that ache when
                                                   ever they arise.
Some shades deeper than a reflection,
             and I weep on those rainbows inside,
for nothing is bright,only shades linger.

I was never the  gold at the end
                              of the rainbow.
You just thought I was the puddle,
trying to forfeit the brightness,
      I was a rainbow that shined,
                   in the pain of your misgivings.

If blood doesn't seep
                from my wrists,
am in not alive..
Or has all feeling just
                 drained from me.

We ponder our existence on the cliffs
                                               of thought,
shall we just gaze at the shallow waves
collecting grains of contemplation.

Or shall we dash our memories
                                    on the rocks of life.
But there is always another view reaching
                                      out to the distance,
And that one we gather our silent thoughts upon.

The uneatable is a mirage
        to those thirsty for an oases
of dream like delusions.

For nothing is waiting,
       Its only now that we
                 see idyllic reflections.

There aren't steps but a mirage
               of what our lives were.

Every step is our creation
                       to others dreams.
That we help with, our every
           reflection is there's to strive for...

She was the only plaster that
I needed to cover wounds, because
no one saw the cuts deepening beneath.
scratching at my tears, crying underneath.

But I never knew that she was the one
silently unstitching my wounds. She'd begun  
long before I was cut, but her words kept
me from realizing tears weren't for me id wept.

She never needed a reason to cut me deep inside.
I was the doll, stuffing pulled from within denied
the respect of my pride. but still I thought her my
plaster healing this cut, while reality cut deeper, why?

Why would she want to hurt what was our love,
why could one cut at that that showing her truelove.
A plaster only hides pain, covering up  intentions
of a misguided trust. I became my own intervention.

Life since our love had blossomed had been rough,
our petals were razor wire memories of those tough
times we had seen before. But I thought our time
had coated those petals, washing away past grime.

She never needed a reason to cut me deep inside.
I was the doll, stuffing pulled from within denied
the respect of my pride. but still I thought her my
plaster healing this cut, while reality cut deeper, why?

I now know that some cuts weren't mine, sharing
her past with me. But instead of healing,cutting, wearing
down what was within me. I needed to feel whole be
myself within no cuts seen. I loved her, but I was unfree.

Thy crows loiter on mornings
fever, blossom brightening to
thee. But when  petals awaken,
onyx lullabies tear each asunder.

Woeful of the beauty of years,
            thy fallen moments collect
like tattered curtains of life.
   Crows sing sirens of despair,
joyful of the passing beauty..

And still they look upon thee,
        no longer petals of years stand.
they wait till your stem of life wilts.
With but a moment of silence when all
has fallen, they bow, wings dispersing life.

Death has released her
           from the chains of
                          purgatory.
For it knew that without
balance to weigh the scales,
that they would be relased
      from this eternal silence.

        At least in hell they
could have felt, but here
                           nothingness
was the reminder of their
                         indiscretions.

Death lingered on her outline,
                 neither could harm the
other, where his touch grasped
petals fell and within his cloak
did for a moment a deep silence
              sang for a finite eternity.

A debt was repaid, but there were
           many that both owed each other.
She kissed him on the cheek and flesh
was woven momentarily and a smile
                                        ventured forth
before lips turned to ash petals and
tombstone gazes looked onward.

We are martyrs of deaths breath,  
       concussive retribution for living
in the light of decay.
Matter is a virus of consumption,
           exhausting the filaments
of extended fulfilment that will never
                                             be quenched.

But death is the saviour of existence,
      collecting on the overture of a
living rhythm, what sang to loudly
         now nullified beyond continuality.


The martyr did linger in disparity
       for life was a creation, but existence
is but greed. So let all ponder the
          expenditure of self and repercussions
of what existence brings to all.
             Death isn't an enemy,
its the saviour of existence.
Coalescing the need for continuity.

Missing a moment
              is like a lifetime
                     of shadows,
just out of reach of the light.

But I will never let you
           be a shadow,
           as you brighten
every moment of my existence.

If problems were leaves
mine would be dried husks of
                         contemplation.
Every one I tried to solve would
just crumble between my fingers.


When I walk on the echoes of
deliberation its stalks penetrate
              deep within my wandering.
Why does nothing grow on
         falling leaves of deterioration.

A dilemma of reflection never grows
            it only crumbles beneath palms.
Clasping at tears never diluted
                but even though expelled.
Never did a single drop help the problems.

Disjointed reflections of vertebrae
that were fluid in the synapsis of
                       my subconsciousness.
they were inadvertently disjointed
              from my walking thought.

Then I fell beneath the tower that
I had build within,
               collateral damage of life.
Broken windows of reflection that
I tried to close, but lacerated my
cognitive actualization of self.

That which severed my validity of self
             was pendulous, but with a
string we can weave something new.
Not as it was before, more worn and not
so luminous, but what was lost is gained
for that voice a lingering a shadow of before.

My view of the world
           through rose tinted glasses.

I hope that we can pick up roses
      hand them to each other
rather than point weapons upon
                       brothers & sisters.
But a rose is a sour beauty
for even thorns can bleed
              deeper than a dull sword.

We must speak to each other find
             solace in others humanity.
For words can heal rifts that started
                 long before we were born.
But syllables latching on to the misgivings
                      of insecurities can wound.
Like papercuts on the mind,
        speaking to the shallow cradles swinging
        in a hateful wind of whispers flawed.

I wear glasses that I take of every now
          and then, I have a idealistically flawed
view seeing the potential of us.
But knowing we can fall harder
                                      than when can get up.

I heard the silhouette of your heart
       echoing in the eyes of our love.
You were a seed that grew entwining
                  around our everyday lives.

Like a petal you were blossoming,
              but then the wilted slowly.
Never did we think beauty could fade,
        every heartbeat a precious reflection.

Where once we had joy, then sadness
       enveloped our hearts, as still as yours.
When you were born, no tears of joy as
       petals had fallen, and stillness entered our lives.

"Every beat is precious,
                      hold everyone one like its a delicate petal"

We escape the confines of the flesh
         through the skin of the dead
for we read unseen words woven
                   like a tapestry on them.

But you can only read what you
have vanquished, and momentarily
it will tell you the future of
                              8,409,600 breathes.

But once the last one expels you must
read upon another for the future has
                                          repercussions.

Only the dead can tell you the words
of the future as there's was taken for
                                my continuation.
I have read many words but soon
                       I must read them again.

My future out ways yours, for I must
breath and read the words of a future
                                      you'll never see.

Void less echoes shimmer across
the hull, as her thoughts delve in
to the scintillescent embers of her
past. She couldn't have foreseen
that every pebble gazed downward
upon, wasn't worth the ripple of an
                             anchor without her.


Her hands held on to the metal as
if it were of meaning, caressing its
indentations. She knew every bolt
and rivet that kept her within the
confines of this place. She used to
gaze outward in this very
                                             same spot.


Memories are like stars, fading after
they have burnt brightly for so long.
This is why she came to this window.
Casting a gaze thinking of the beauty
before her, possibilities to her endless
imaginings, but then she faded
                                                   before me.

But space is cold, and now she ventures
beyond my grasp, a grain in an ocean
eternity. I look outward thinking of her
everyday. Knowing that one day I’ll be a
grain finding her
                             in the sands of time

Nature calved up, decapitated limbs
left in unmarked eulogies, only silence
speaks. The carcasses of the fallen now
lumber atop of each other. A mass grave
of something once tall now fallen & muted.

Within the insects of humanity now infest
this cadaver, putting what once was brethren
upon the flame. A funeral pyre of rings now
turning to ash, warming the lumbering morbidity
that has an aroma of pine cones screaming in the night.

They live within our gravestones of silence.
Nailing there memories within our husks.
Yet they abandon us like we were momentary
needs, for we are lifetimes in their finite moments.
                     And we decay from where we came from.

Some are just like vultures
           hovering over a moment,
eager to feed on the morsels  
               of your woefulness.

Meant to be a friend of those of lost
Teeth, collecting all calcium of baby
Moments falling out to the moment
Of growing youth. Now soon to be
Turning from a time of innocence.

But calcium of those pure of heart
Were not adhering to nature, staying
In longer no longer the rush of what
Was. Now a slow season of teeth falling
A fairy of white need her rush.

Forbidden from youth a line not to
Be crossed, but those of aged youth,
Teeth for the picking, an abundant
Supply of the white stuff. a glint in
The eyes of the bleached pegs.

In sleep they purged with sandman
Dust, blooded gums of what was once
A set. Now but a blooded mess, so
Many white taken even the yellow and
Black, crimson bled from every mouth.

Beware her with hunger in her eyes, of
Blooded gums, she craves what fell from
Innocence, but now feeds on any  that
Are pure or tainted to get her rush, Sleep
Soundly all, and keep your mouth shut.

Withdrawn beneath the shallow
pools of shadows, does my guilt
            linger. Hidden from sight.

Not all skeletons are buried in
closets, some are in shallow graves
                             beneath the covers.

For those things we wish to hide from
others, are never sunken deep for others
                           dig deeper than we think.

Under my bed are dusty reminisce of
things best not known,
                              by others peering eyes.

For some secrets we sleep upon,
never looking for the monsters of our
        own making, slumbering underneath.

I never bite my nails,
the taste is just not for me.
I see others chew on pinkies
and much to my disgust
        they chop on them between
                                      their teeth.

Do you know where they
                          have been,
do you know you didn't
                  wash your hands
Now your biting the tips.

I noticed that those who chew,
have stubby fingers
                           looking grossly.
Use a pair of scissors manicure
                                appropriately.

Please don't bite your nails,
              then spit them out near me.
Its not the wild west there isn't
       spit buckets to collect rejected
                                      nail clippings.

Paint them,
                trim them,
manicure them properly.
but please don't chew them,  
its unhygienic and is so unsanitary.

Our brother has
       claws and teeth.
But never does he look
                at us as a feast.

So cuddly and soft he's our
                    blanket to sleep.
When walking around the lake
                he purrs in delight.

For he is our brother from a
                         distant cousin,
that's what our mother says.
        But to us he's our best-est friend.

He purrs in his sleep, we quack when
                             we have bad dreams.
But together were brothers, no matter
        our looks, we are family always.

Entombed within the golden locks,
a struggle of two personalities that
coalesce beneath the shimmer of
                                 dusk and dawn.

Never do either ever see the features
portrayed beneath the flesh of others.
Corporeal forms foreboding there existing
                                time haunting memories.

When the curse was woven in sullen
contest, not knowing that this would
knit there time to the fabric of each other’s waking breath.

But when night did lynch daylight then
the other awoke, feverishly needing to
tend to the others demise. Not realising
                                 golden locks unlocked.

It was only when the other stared deep
into the pool of reflection. They saw the
other looking in fright, but neither one
                                behind just reflections.

Now the truth has been attuned to their
existence, they were as one through the
shadow and light to undo a misgiving
                                    from a birth right.

Each has seen into another knowing.
Where there misgivings have given them
reflection, and now they have a purpose
                                to set things right.

Dilemmas of inconsistent reflections
                   never looking at the same
                                                    mirror.

Where cracks seem like gorges of
            incompatible strains upon
                                          morality.

But there is a way to not look in
               deliberation upon false
                                  impressions.

Look within each other, not the warped
                           reflection conflicting our
                                                    humanity.

He rode his fingers upon
      the prairies of her
                                   desires.

Gliding on the wild grass,
          never intruding without
                                       consent.

But she only let him travel
                to her pure
                           waterholes
                                        
Always thirty for him.

Bellowing ferocity holds its calm
over the imperial hunger of ants
                         clambering feverishly  below.

Even though they build to the heavens,
             It will wash clean  away
every virtue of there
                        false benevolence.

Enslavement beyond yearnings,
                   tied to the precursors
          of times submitted before.

But I'll never be held in solitude,
our right's to never be shackled.
We wear our freedom with pride.

Never once was the power just mine,
but the fellows and positivity of our oidins
                realm that lingers before us.

The people of Asgard were the battery
that powered every aspect that battled
           the insecurities of faulting races.

My sons thought that objects were there
        strength, but it was always with the
                                 confides of each other.
Power is within never externally pondering.


Within my last ventures my children will
             find a strength that builds walls against
             the onslaught of what collects against us.

Never falter my  kin of old,
             let us breath new life within the realms
that have lost hope, for lightening can strike twice.


"When the hammer shall fall, even though broke
                  nothing shall waver the brotherhood forged"

We gaze, but must never listen to the
                     insecurities of something
                     as shallow as a vein of glass.

For a reflection is more shallow,
          than the light refracting off it.
     Only look inward, never external.

Though the lamp burns
all I see is the brightness before me,
yet I never watch the shadows of woe
                               that this light expels.

                            For within illumination  
there is always things that even though
illuminated we shield our eyes from.

For every footstep may be seen,
but still we tread over the footsteps
                     of others shielding eyes.

For we may follow others paths,
     but there are still stones
             that are never read upon.

For every smooth path hides the weeds,
                         to ashamed to walk upon.

I sat on decaying desks of reflection.
       My homework, write a moment
                                of life that meant the most.


But this is a theory of retrospective
       collections, tattered and loosely fitting.
Writing in faded inks of yesterday.


Everything I'd wrote was a failure,
                    never amassing a page of meaning.
I knew I wasn't a graduate of life.

Mostly a D minus in the accomplishments of what
I could have wrote. But instead I just
                   dodged classes and ended up a failure.

Their the glue
          holding my thoughts
solid through the hard times.

I would never fly a kite
            in a storm of depression,
            worried of being struck down.

But when I fly it with them,
the clouds disperse and my kite
                flies high with the love of all.


Every breath pushing my affection higher,
                                   I'll always fly this kite
           as long as there love breathes upon it.

We ponder the last
            thoughts of winter.
Gusting frozen kisses
            as a last verse
on its cheek of reflection

towards warmer visions.

It was 11.59 a moment before
       the afternoon of our lives.
But a finite moment of seconds
                  can collect on regrets.

What if I had told you the life story
of midday reflections was momentary.
I was nothing before you walked on the  
                                                          d­oorstep
of my heart, rubbing feelings on my heart.

Alas time will wonder on seconds
                       of inconsistent faults.
     Within those frail moments our
future was a shattered reflection below.

You were mine before midday, I'll hold
        every second before the moments past.
     Reflections of moments I'll collect,
      but I know after midday your just a memory.

We are each a particle of light
       illuminating the surrounding
                                          landscape.

Each of us energising the emotions
       of others solar panels of reflection.
                                     were all star dust.

But before we supernova to oblivion,
      we help others grow to fulfilment
                            in our light of knowledge.

Never expect sympathy,
           always expect compassion.
For when we foresee
        emotional involvement.

It must be of the heart,
          and not thought.
As that can be swayed
      with wrongful intentions.

I never see myself as perfect,
           but perfection in my eyes,
           are the smaller footsteps
           that cling to my larger strides.

I'll never see myself as a shadow,
       as my children will always brighten
       the areas that seem dull. They are a beacon
       of resilience, always brightening my days.

Our conciseness is a teardrop
       in the reflection of our
                                    morality.

For every ripple,
                  has a repercussion,
                  of cognitive contemplation.

Tears may fall, but our morality
                         is a ripple always
                         collecting on shores
                         of retrospective conciseness.

Always better to smile than a frown,
                   for smiles mean happiness
                has greeted your thoughts.

And that life isn't always **** ,
             that there is always some gold lining
in those grey clouds hanging around.

Plucking nails like petrified petals,
each one tipped in faded gloss.
And they fall silently,
                 this life is now morbidity.

Wood has splintered within this carcass
of holding, she plucks hair and manifests
a brush,dipping it in the empty socket
                                                        of reflection.

Visual metaphors adorn the now
                                                       sullen silk interior.
Now hanging like drapes in a
         still wind of putrefaction.

Death is a void less experience,
         where one must entertain oneself,
for eternity is a long time to captivate myself
               in a six by two tomb of introspection.

Gravity now limps aging parts,
once firm tools of arousal  
        now dulled
             scrapping on the floor.

But each holds the others up,
                dignity with a hand
                         and string.
Gravity cant dull their love.

Life is the meaning
                  of breath.
Make sure your first
         is always the longest,
so we inhale our experiences.

For what is understanding
           but the exhalation
of what we breath inward.

Bereft beyond contemplation,
          still do impoverished
memories still falter.

And every petal that
         lacerates within
inclines while scaring inward.


The blossom that you gave me,
        soils slowly. Soon I will have
just the decaying perfume to linger on.

Stray cats lingering around vacant cans, alleyway
disarray of the forgotten. Odours of a doorway
they hunger upon, loitering around refuse, dismay
day and night. Where it seems like an endless replay.

Runaway of ill gotten anger, now soiled on a pathway.
stowaway of loneliness and then finds a hideaway,
leading astray of its virtues, but in despair finds a delay.
Friends appear from crumbled pasts and its day is less grey.

May all those of lost causes find this place of a hungers buffet.
Ok there isn't enough to go around, but they get by. A display
lay before all that there not alone. Feline brotherhood, stray
repay for being taken in, food is there goal, bins lids fall today.

An anagram of luminosity,
      breathing the arrival of
      life's awaking season now
                                blossoming.

Collected on windowsills,
       brightening a households aura.
       A radiance breaths sunlight  
                                                within­.

The Neanderthals of present man,
                     need to evolve to the
****-sapiens  realisation that
                 everything moves on.

That they were only judgmental
     on the past, thoughts are evolving
                   to what is seen now.
And those of evolutions past
                     are needing  to catch up.

For those that linger on past hatred
           and prejudices, will be extinct
           in the motion of time.
and all will remember
                                      their faults after.

Breathless pauses coincide
        to waiting in fruitless
        endeavours.
        An inability to
        move forward,
                              traffic jam.

The deluge washed away
        the inhibitions
that kept her chained to chastity.

Now where a desert of desire
                                     was arid,
         moistness now blossomed.

Her flower was scented
             with seedlings of love
      that embellished her desires.

The morality of our present
      will have implications
       on the repercussions
of what it means to be moral.

For the principles we bestow
       on others of future words,
       of actions. Will acknowledge
the motivations of future references.

Our ethics aren't beckoned by
       beliefs or regional confides.
       They are moulded on the
evolution of our evolving humanity.