The faceless one I see
in a dream, I look in the
mirror the faceless one
looks back at me.

I try to look around but
darkness erupts and the
light becomes dim, I want
to see who the faceless one,
but I see no face in the mirror
who could it be.

Mirrors surround echo's  of
a persons reflections missing
parts no face no feet, who,
what could it be, parts of
one incomplete.

I put the mirrors together, I
combine each to make one
mirror  complete, not the
different parts that I could
see. 

Now the jigsaw is
complete, as one I look to see
that which was not whole. I look
and it is  me a fractured mind now
as one, I wake and look in the mirror
and my face looks back at me...

The extension of me, Its held like a woman.
Gentle always, never relinquished to another.
Never taken for granted, Its never used its
an extension of me.

Never seeing the other as a heart beat,
but a means to an end for me to go home.
I never looked in their eyes,
             Its them
                  or me, I choose me every time.

They took their choosing, I ended there breath
with a moment, one stood, one feel beneath tears
of steel. I'm only human, survival is collective
on everyone's thoughts, yours are silent though.

I'm not an enemy, just a voice of another point of view.
Unluckily you choose the a side that collected your
body after I'd left this place. I never think of you,
but I remember ever body faceless crying in my nightmares

And the faceless looked upon the living and heads tilted in
Anguish, in hated of those features, that expressed
As theirs were but a blank state, could we ascend into there
Fears of an existence where nothing was shown but torn
Into our reality through pain.

Each yearned to expresses their contempt and would push the
Sheath between here and there, their finger would delve in
To those features that wished to show the pain they felt, so
Numb in that place of shadows where only the featureless
Were searching  in darkness. There are only silhouettes of
Shadows of former self's craving for the memory of before.

It doesn't matter to them that the flame past, that moments
Now extinguished they craved the time that was, not the
Nothingness, the faceless that they have now become. Wanting
To see through eyes not their own, to utter those grievances
That were not spoken in those past moments now dust.

The reaper left them in that place where evil lies upon thorns,  
That lacerate where innocence feeds into those that corrupted it.
To the darkest place and what was tainted now onyx blackened
No longer is there   humanity in this husk of shadow but taint
That was left upon death and it feed upon self, and feed well.

A shadow only has power in the dark but, we are darkness
In the light with our thoughts, that show them the faces that the
Faceless wish to show the pain of their loneliness. The darkness
Has a face and it is blank, it wants to see through your perception
Through you it wishes to vent its featureless obsession .

Loves a contamination of a mind
enthralled and unburdened.

But where euphoria settles their is
Also pain that burdens loves existence.

*"A heart dies,

Where footprints in the sand once stayed,
                      one is now washed away..
And we look around hoping one day ours
                       will be joined by another's.

Different from before,
                       But for now we walk on the beach
  looking at each sunrise,
                     because there is always another day..

I'm a wondering soul,
      That has no footsteps
To call my own.  

All you step is on imprints
                           Of the past,
Showing  you the right steps to take...

As I sailed upon the ocean of
Stars my sails shimmering
In the radiance of solar breezes.

The sun was setting for an eternity
Now fading from our gaze.
Our light house fading from sight.

The order was given to hoist the
Main sail for the winds were as
A breath now faint and cold.

We sail the infinite ocean of lanterns
Always sailing beyond the sunset
Catching the breath of celestial stars.

family lovingly
               surround
            
eyes see strangers.

Her wounds were non-negosabile,
Knowing this was her fading epilogue,
           "I die free, I'm not your slave"

She choose this path, knowledge was
better than the servitude to false shadows.
She was bleeding a stream of life on the ground.

One will fade like stars,  but never reignite..
I fall in this moment of my choosing, her last words..
*"I  die for tomorrow, so that it may fly freely of chains"

If the green grass wasn't washed up
                  on the shores of paradise.

I'd prefer to walk on the mud...

The world is a mirage of echoes,
versing past my vision like illusions.

I try to reach out, but shadows hold
no grasp of my disappointment.

Failures  mirror on myself as they cling
to my insides like teardrops of acidic despair.

They melt away at the picture perfect hollow
smiles that are cracking within each falsehood.

I'm tired of the scars of my past, stories that
bled, healing but still bleeding beneath myself ..

Angels fall from the heavens, for the
belivers are no more, wings are but
ash on the floor.

They were held up high in their place
in heavens above, but we do not need to see
above to know what we love.

For love is not of things not seen, but
of our selfs and others family, they
fell from up high to the floor below.

Now they are us for ever more, we have
moved on from books wrote so long ago, now
just fiction for those to read and know.

Fallen angels walk among the crowd,
no longer blessed, now just another face
in the crowd.

The darkness it burnt upon my
Angel wings, they wilted, with
Each moment of this forsaken
Place, my soft skin did  haemorrhage
Tainted with each breath every
Movement that I crawled upon
This acidic land corroded my light .

My white turned yellow, changed
From pure to black, I was in agony
As that which was white should
Never be turned to that. I was
Winged, not able to give motion
To the air, I was a ground dweller
As if wings were a weight a persecution
To the time of air, now dragging like
A weight a conscience upon my back.

I must have walked upon this scared
Land, I must have moved these once
Pure now tainted as dragged like sin
Behind my back.

I was before I fell, I contemplated
That which I had been and that
Which this land whispered to me
Become. The light was dulled, smothered
Like a wet blanket over a fire, Suffocated
What burnt bright, now I was being
Extinguished my dulled light.

I remembered I fell and my skin smelt
Sulphuric with a hint of light, I knew
I had bleed hatred behind me, I knew
That I had been left, abandoned to this
Isolation. My wings had regained there
Imagery, they were like crows feathers
Pure, dark, black as night.

I despised  those above, their light, ignited
Hatred, deep within where something that
Beat but know was just black, I launched
Upon the breeze to take me vengeance
Upon that purity that  glided, flowed.

I am that which will take those of higher
morals and bring them to the place of
Solitude, of loneliness, they will remember
The pain of those they had been left in the
Darkness,  For light can only last so
Long before it becomes what was before.

Sleeping rough
like a leaf blowing
across the pavement.
          never knowing
where I'll settle
before the breeze
of others discontent,
    brushes me from
my resting place.

I wonder like a cloud,
never stopping
                  in one place.
I'll never rain down,
all that's kept inside.
I'll never have  
           a sliver lining.
Just one with hues
of regret, of better times.


You can hear
the rustling
plastic sheeting.
The breeze is light here,
We can stay
                for a little while.


Leaves fallen
             from the tree
will never be still.
Ever moving,
               Ever restless.
When will we again
see from a higher elevation
other than below there feet
crumpled up like a fallen leaves.

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.

The trees bend like twigs,
To wind that spares no branches,
Fallen trees of old.

Ash fell like twisted snowflakes distorted
from tome stone clouds, children were playing
outside unaware to the ruination descending .
Collecting this abomination of clouds above.

Amassing the needed amount, collecting
it with others as heavy than the white stuff.
But collectively they made each one, dead branches
hung as limbs of fallen life hanging loosely.

Each was a distortion of the other, as each child
coughing under showers of grey flakes...
Eyes were broken bottles glassed into there features
Smiles more of teeth, small rocks falling like hail above.

As each on looked upon there creation, on there knees
admiring each's snowman of grey hues. They stayed
their  breath was concrete, Imamate like snowmen
coverings of ash collected upon there silence.

They fell beneath there snowmen, like tombstones
silently adoring there creators. Buried beneath the
tears of an angry heaven. the snowmen awkwardly
smile. Silence collects as death is buried by clouds.

Vocals bungee jump from my inhalation  to
the repercussions of my exhalation.

What was perceived on the decent never the image
that was observed on the culmination
                                            of its falling from my lips.

What we say isn't always what we vocalize,
expelling our thoughts
                       changing with every exhale of emotion.

They fall like heavy rain to the street below,
impacting the lives randomly as do they stop,
tore to pieces, lumps, a stain on the now
crumbling wall, They were just drinking tea,
then the rain fell and they were no more.
The drops fell everyday, rickety shelters in a
garden false hope, but what hope was there
when the noise of incoming clouds could be
seen and heard so dark as they floated by,
then the rain when it fell, rubble now where
lives where lived, as what was inside now
strewn about.

The heavy rain did fall, where it fell fire
breathed and destruction was the music
of the day, a symphony of of mayhem on
a grand scale. Streets run red and black
lives were lost to the rain randomly each
day, you lived each day as if it was your
last for when the rain fell it took you in
a moment or you wished it took you in
the blast.

As injuries from torn skin bones smashed,
would you survive luck was the friend, and
death took many away for when the rain
dropped and the buildings burnt with those
like wicks burned alive. It was a terrible time
and may be again never forget those that
pasted and for those that lived on ...

Least we fall, let it be on
to a ****** we dislike
     to cusion our descent. .

And may we smile,
    while they wince

in regrettable pain.


Whoops did my foot accidently

        tread upon your  

private property..

Well least you remember
that ones fall
       is another's pain.


And another's *******...

The praise of reflections were
but a mirage of recommended
                                          echoes fading.

That collected in the coroners,
that praised the failings of empty
                                         glorified nothingness

Truth is but a lie,
           Layered in white but
Hiding the grime of
          Falsehoods whisperings.

The king is dead he never rose
from his resting place, chose
instead to be the embodiment
of a false fable writing the copyist.

Within a cave of delusions that kept
the image of false motives hidden.
An off spring of a method not unkempt.
this version the kept reasoning now forbidden.

Delusions of two reflections not seeing that
one is not a king but a falsehood sat on divided chat.
Neither were a failing, but reflections of a belief
that were conflicting upon a tree with a twinned leaf.

But when one must fall, both will simultaneously
greet the earth with a momentary spontaneously.
Always will one be ahead of the other claiming divine
leading, and others follow this moment of design.

But every king has a past that is woven in misbelief,
for all false kings can bring is an unethical belief
that they are the true monarch of a world run by many
where brothers & sisters there just spinning a single  penny

Cleaving droplets from a composition
of stagnating hues, decomposing but
still useful as canvas coloured smiles.
Death brings emotion to faces void.

Everyone that is used are unique in the
smearing of what flowed like a petrifying
eye liner. Now broken vessels that divorce
emotion from there being unto another.

There are no smiles here,
           just a covering of falseness.
For without the colour of others
       he laughs at the bleached expression.

"Who needs smiles,
                        when you can paint others on brighter"

Watching them lifeless before me,
                            Clingfilm figurines.

                  silence is golden...

My depression

       Only flows with tears



Of regretful consequence.


Do you know what warm tears
                Taste like.


The sorrows of what lays still.



    Im sorry, but I couldn't let  

              Another drown with

My irreversible mistake.  



Swim far, so I didnt sink,

          I want to swim,

With you all, family are together.

He was the only one that made the yarn trees blossom,
From silken leafs to flowers grown. Then as petals tumbled
Yarn cascaded upon branches and hung. So rich in colour
Were these pieces that they glided upon gentle breezes.

So many colours flowed and creation was gathered each
Picked delicately as not to fray to keep whole. Some of wax
Were covered while others were light like a feather and felt
like air when sewn. All was plucked till blossom fell once more.

He had knitted the cows from birth they were but a yarn
Now they had grown extra stitching with each passing year,
To help them expand and grow. Upon fibered grass they did feed.
Each one was of a different fibre for milking  purest silk.

Everyday the cows would be milked, and white silk did flow
Into buckets collected and off to be designed maybe into
An elegant swan, A dove, butterfly of white did fly upon its
Creation wings so light its beauty fluttered and flowed.

But Farmer stich had other animals, others to create the
Things needed for twine is fine, but to knit we must have
Buttons to hold. And with that they were fed on pellets
Of plastic proteins and quality was a must.

Every day they laid many a egg. Farmer Stitch would
Hold them to the light to see if they had a flurry of
Buttons inside each one different when cracked open.
Some with one hole, two holes, three, rare was a four.

Farmer stitch was a man of sewn words, he would fasten
His thoughts into ideas. When yarn had flowed upon
The breeze, and eggs did buttons fall from. Many a thing
Would be made, and now this yarn is over till again sewn.

Party was at 6pm? I'll fashionably late 6:03pm
So many faces I stare into them and see falsehoods.

"Punch,
"I would like nothing more.

My mind wonders as I envision my blooded palm,
Hearing screams in senseless abandonment.

I pause and take a glass, here I say in forced smiles.

"Hi Matt,
"Hi Angie,

Each given a bottle,

"Sorry I don't drink alcohol?
"No worries here's some bottled punch,

I watch each in their greed anesthetizes my mind.
And I smile, and I breath, what a wonderful day
Tomorrow will bring.

"You ok Lucy?
"I don't feel so good,

"Can I tell you a secret?
"Yes,
"I poisoned each bottle that you all drank,

Like a dead flower she folds in front of me.
Devine terror as I sit drinking my water, legs folded
I give a little wave, slightly camp some could say.
*And then there is silence.

She was a dainty little one, that's what her mother
used to say, but now she wasn't so young.
Time was a tide that had flowed over her hair once
blonde and flowing down her back now a shimmering grey.

But she had noticed a decline in the world of those of
mature age, clothes were drab ugly and grey.
So much unattractive clothing made by the mother of
modern age dullness. Trying to sweeten the *** by calling
each a different name

The Ashen Collection:  It fell from the clouds and landed on you.
The Pearly Collection:  Even beauty doesn't need colour

Were they not color blind? Ok maybe a few were, but
this was just horrible, it was like wearing cement.
Just as stiff and ghastly to even wear. This just made
people look frightful in dismal clothing not suited to be
seen in the light of any day they walked out in it.

So I had to make a stand, I had to keep this dismal color
from tainting the eyes of a younger soon to be older
generation. I had wrote to the fashion designer by
Email, what just because I'm old doesn't mean I haven't
got skills. Her name is Miss Grey Bottom....

---------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------------------
Dear Miss Grey Bottom,

As I am one of less years than more, it would be appreciated that
these years are filled with friends amusement and children's laughter.
I see though that your clothes line has been hitting the scene,
Yes I'm hip with the lingo..

I ask that you add a little color to this line of mature wear
due to the numbing effect it has on those wearing it?
There is no color in there face, no smiles just blank eyes.

At This time were most alive, we need the vibrant feel of life
in our daily lives. Not the mundane clothes that numb the senses.

Yours Sincerely,

                           F.G
-----------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------------

I waited and waited, well ok I waited two weeks, ya don't
know how long you have left, it was like waiting for paint
to dry under the ocean. But I waited I even shrank an inch
in the time I wasted. So I thought I would do something about it,
as more and more were just walking around in dismal
clothing draining what little youth they had left. So I got a
few of my crew, and we got our design on. Front loop,
garter stitch, knit left loop, there so many weavings that we could
tell you about but now the first piece was finished.

"Try it on, it was an mixture of all our creativity, so we got
Mr. Robin he was 65 years old and had such cute rosy checks..
He looked puzzled?? "What's a matter Mr. Robin? Half his head
was sticking through the top of the jumper, not worried about
messing his hair or lack of...
He then preceded to tell us that it looked like a unicorn had
thrown up a rainbow on it.. "Oh, Colourful metaphor,
and then he proceeded to dance, I think he was break dancing??
He had good moves for his age.

"Ladies it itches so very badly, “I wasn't dancing,
"It feels like I have ants in my pants, crawling around
this jumper that I must take off now...

Sighing and regaining his composure,

"I never knew I had those kind of moves still in me,

Giggling slightly, he then folded the jumper.

He politely put it on the table, saying that if each did a
singular design, their own creation that it would be an art piece,
each a creation of their colourful imagining.
But please, please not in wool, try other fabrics.
And with this ladies of knowledge weaved there ideas together.
Two months later and quite a few pennies spent they produced
their own line of vibrant colours fulfilling the gap where drab,
grey clothing had drowned the feelings of an older generation
needing colour in this moment of their lives.

It now felt like what once was missed entered their lives through
the creations of these vibrant grannies.  But as there designs were embraced by the [silver mains] people of older graces.. The dullness was fading, and a certain lady didn't approve of such sunlight in
those that once wore her garments now being used as wash clothes.. Miss Grey Bottom was sullen for her plans to make the word
feel as she did, sombre in thoughts that weaved into her designs.
But she wasn't giving in  without a fight, she brought out new collections that had a hint of silver grey a hue not colour but
not as bland... but this was a start, its was called the;

Cloud collection:  Everyone has a silver lining..

Fashion Granny smiled, as she knew that seeing those of
Mrs Grey bottoms age infused had slightly changed her,
and with that they made more clothing to invigorate those
of climbing years..
Reviews were steadfast from those wearing there line:

Mr Whitehall:  I love the colouring of your clothing, it was
like it was made for my personality.
                                        Thanks F.G

Miss Waterson:  I feel like a millions pounds, this line enriches
my life every day I wear it.
                                        Thanks F.G

These were but a few of the thousands of reviews they were
scoring at 4.9 out of 5 stars in the reviews and the grannies smiled,
glad that they brought some reflection into their collection of clothing.
There was a knock at the door, and to all there surprise none other
than Miss Grey Bottom.

"Hi grey, about time you answered my email,  
Said her sister. Yes Miss Grey was fashion Grannies sister,
older by 10 years 2 months and 3 days.

"Why wouldn't you answer my calls and emails??
" I was really worried about you and those clothes so
gloomy yet I could tell the beauty was trying to come out
with those beautiful lines,

She just stared at her sister in silence and then, noticing
a tear she wiped it with her thumb tenderly holding her sisters
face. Miss Grey burst into tears and Fashion Grannie held on
to her sister, they hugged for what seemed like forever before
Miss Grey composed herself. "I have missed you so much,
Fashion granny smiled,
"Me to, you silly sausage, 
 
She introduced her sister to all those who helped her with
the colouring and design of their brand F.G, then they sat;

"Your my sister I didn't want to burden you with my
problems,

Fashion granny lent over and kissed her sister forehead

"You silly sausage, that's what family are for,

With those words a smile eclipsed Miss G B's face,
a smile rose across her sisters remember that beauty
that she once knew returning to her sisters face.

"Well you have me and my crew as friends now..

"Your crew, giggling aloud Miss G.B couldn't
even frown for she was for the first time in a long
time smiling, laughing.. Even though tears were
falling they were of happiness, not sadness as before.

Three Months Later,

The world had become a brighter place as sisters
and friends created art woven from cloth and not
only for those of silver locks, but these were hip
grannies they were weaving for the younger crowd.
The first show was about to start and they looked
out to see if many had come to see the new line,

A unicorn had thrown up a rainbow collection:
         So much colour you'll see rainbows in your sleep

It was an international hit, and the grannies were so proud
of what they had done not a singular person, but as close
friends. They carried on with this until they retired which
was not as far away as you'd think. But they had made new
friends and two sisters had once again found each other again
both thinking of how proud there mother would be now.

Feathers blossomed showering upon sight,
After a windshield hit all was in darkness.
The moments of blindness, reflexes
Each moment ushered away.

For not a moment wished or sought,
A** flurry of darkness covered like death,
These flightless left overs controlling
Every moment lasting a lifetime.

Fate lends us hands, delegates its plan
A motion, was it foreseen,
That which was and is about to happen
Every moment was it mapped out by fates hand.

Woeful of the memories,
              was I to blame!

Could I have changed that moment?


When he walked out of our timeline.

Altered futures of what would have been
                 happy moments.

   But he was vacant like a parked car paying
                         for a spot never ever filled.
Still we waited on the clock before the pennies
                           ran out and then...
  

Tickets of denial, that he was there for us..
    he threw pennies at the lap of our mother.

She cried inside ever strong...

We were young of innocence, thinking he was
      there for us. But she was the guild that
                   caressed every fall,
                          every awkward question.

Denial was a strong venture for boys,
     that  thought the sun shone brightly.

In reality it was like the northern hemisphere
                   frozen for a time then thawed.

In reality, there was an absence of reconciliation.
        daydreaming of perfection.  
                                                   ­  never realising...
That one took the personification of both.
             And we gazed upon her as a not worthy.


But she brought us up in the wordless motion,
         of abandonment, not wanting us to see the reality..


That our Dad was as worthless as the pennies he
         threw in discord,
                                                 thinking that the copper
stepping stones were of worth to feed  and put cloth on us.


She was the one that played the part of both.
      gone is her words of wisdom..

But still her learning lives on..


                   We love you mother & Dad..


But realistically   she was both, and when she passed..

          She wasn't  a loss of a singular person but
                   one that filled the footsteps of both..



Mum we miss you... every one that wasn't filled
      not one footstep,
                           but one that filled both.

Fear is the demon
that will scratch at
your soul, leaving
goose bumps where
its fingers have tried
to take hold.

But to give in to fear
is to fear ones self, to
slay the demon you
must move  past it
do not let its icy grip
take hold.

We fear many things,
but fear is an illusion,
and like illusions, blow
away that which we fear
and all the worries drip
away, and fear is washed
away never again
to take hold

Pillow fight moments,
          as a snow storm

of feathers

                       coat the room in a allure.

                     Weightless
snow ball fights ensue,

                tickling those they gently grace.

                         Parents walk in,  
stillness as the last feather descends.

Then laughter,
                as mum & dad do pillow

                 snow angels on the floor.

Plumage of silhouettes sway on the
                             music of natures breath,

a choreography of natures beauty.

I wept at the moment
           You were faded, and
                            I thought feathers can ****,
                                              As they were weighted upon
                                                             You­r breath, and then, *stillness...

Buoyancy keeps me floating above
a tide of seductive
                           deepening

I'm a stop motion venture that will
surprise you with a reality
                                       at its ending..