Steam escapes the surface
Of infant mince pies.
It spirals upwards, dancing
Into the winter haze
Where headlights, opaquely visible,
Fight the fog.

The mist flurries atop the frozen pond,
Over brittle leaves, half caught.
The deer nuzzles in frosty thickets,
Searching the winter veil
For stray nut.

‘neath the tap my hands endure
The bitter cold of winter’s water;
But happily I return to my window,
And cast a gaze once more on winter Britain.
The fire leaves a smoky essence,
A homely smell.
December come.

Terrifying façade,
long and tall, overpowering
but frail.
Ready to crumble and fall.

Snide wire intertwined,
exit wounds in the concrete flesh.
Each thorn stood to attention,
unwelcoming guards of the now unwanted.

Block after block
of relentless alleyways,
like a labyrinth of colossal gravestones.
The sky opens.

Water rattles bullet-like,
upon the once majestic city walls.
The cathedral moans its last hymn
as the steeple betrays itself.

The descent prevails.

I hope and I wish with all my heart
that I can make you as happy as you make me,
because I swear to god you’re everything I’ve ever wanted
and ten times what I’ll ever be.

I have, for whatever reason, been given a chance with you.
and I am so
*******
terrified,
because now that I have you
the only thing left to do
is to lose you.  
(The only thing that hurts more than unrequited love
is having loved and lost.)

But believe me when I say that I’m going to work.
I’m going to try
so ******* hard
to be half the person you deserve,
to be everything you want me to be.

I just hope you know
that you’re not obligated to stay
just because of everything that’s happened.
I hope you’re still here
because you want to be
and not because you feel like
you have to be.

I love you.

But if you need to go, well.
I already know what it feels like to die.
Could a broken heart be worse?

Fallible, shocked to find myself low
I did not believe my descent could be so
Don't I live with magical dispensation
My life being subject to my blithe creation !
I thought I was living outside the mass rules
Sadly I see I'm asleep with the fools.

Slowly I rise, weeping thanks and distress
Paying dear price for my stubbornness
Making amends to body and spirit
My arrogance gone ? I think not, but fear it !
Humility wakened, Immortality slashed
Continuing reasons to feel so abashed.

What are the steps I must now be ascending ?
Practice beginner mind now never ending.
Sacred illusions are found to be crumbling
Retreat to the silence , relief from the rumbling
Raising my gaze though I'm used to head bowed
Trembling aside, now refuse to stay cowed.

A silence with you
Is not
a silence

But a moment rich
with peace

I tire
Of the perfect:
Of the flawless,
The azure,
The quiet,
The pastoral.
I tire of sunsets
And of flowers
I tire of perfect skin
And perfect lungs
I tire of politeness
And I tire of patience.

I am bored
by golden sunrays,
Reflected brightly
from golden hair
Trailing behind a sundress
Weaving, careless,
through golden wheat.
I no longer want to be her.

I tire of fluffy pillows
And warm blankets.
I am bored of hot tea
And of books about things
That are not real,
Only beautiful figments of the mind,
Only as real as the pages, the cover,
Only as real as we can pretend them to be -
And I am bored of pretending.

I am bored with cities
And with mountains
And with fields
And rivers
And the ocean.
I grow impatient with the trees
And the clouds
And the birds.


I am bored by the beautiful.
Because beautiful is beautiful, so,
But it is only beautiful.
And Beauty, though held fast,
Esteemed above all other qualities
Sought tirelessly
Worshipped and envied
Revered, praised
Beauty is only beauty.
It is not deserved.
It is not earned.
It cannot speak, it cannot give
It cannot love.
Beauty is nothing.
Beauty is boring.
I am bored by beauty.
I do not seek what is beautiful.
I will never be beautiful.
But that is a very small thing
To never be.
I can be far, far more
Than beautiful.

I can be real.
You are real.
And I am real.
And us, we
We are real.
What we are
What we have
Is real.
I am not yet tired
Of you.

And I will never be tired
of us.

I don’t understand how you could me mine.
(What does the proud oak want with the pine?)
I can’t imagine how my long, skeletal hands
are the ones yours long to hold.
I am tough and coarse, like a pine,
Ever-green, constant, covered in spines
and needles, unpleasant and sharp to the touch.
While you, my love, are an oak.
You are strong and beautiful. Your leaves change colors,
fiery or verdant, you are loud when all others
shrink from speech. You, love, are dynamic, intriguing,
a tree that inspires poetry.
Your roots hold you fast, they run deep and true,
while mine fan out, shallow. I fear with no roots
to hold me, the wind could take me away.
(The wind will tear me apart.)
You are the one tree that grows tall and straight
in a place where the wind, fed by anger and hate
forces others to bend, to grow crooked, they’re lost
and confused, with nothing to reach for.
My branches are short – I offer no comfort
(from lack of ability or knowledge, I’m not sure).
Your branches stretch wide, embracing with smooth bark,
But an oak cannot love a pine.