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In the pit of the night though cold
is curtained and
fittingly covered is my yearning
for thee, vain
hope decides to unsleep and keep
me wide-eyed
til morning has for certain broken.
When laid low
by memory I find myself clinging
close to thy
pillow and think of that presence
its hollow holds.
At last a slow winning of pale over
grey as dawn's
rosy fingers bid me away, I go to
stay at my
window until tide is high, as this
time it may be
the one that is bringing thee safe
home again.
 Jan 2017 Robert Andrews
ab
remember
 Jan 2017 Robert Andrews
ab
i have a hard time remembering
much of our time together.

we were so young,
so foolish.

i only remember the feelings.

i was a hot night,
right before nightfall when the fireflies
did flips in the trees and between blades of grass.
i was the bubbling tar of the street
beneath my skateboard,
the air suffocating everything
but my ability to see what was in front of me,
i was the Fourth of July.
i was the last sparkler in a box,
just waiting to be used,
left behind and forgotten.

but you-
oh, you were the sun
setting behind the trees.
you were the one
that made the fireflies decide to play,
the one
that convinced everyone you were on top,
the one
that could make the Earth explode,
if you really wanted to.
you were an honor,
not a right.
you were
my match to
make me sparkle
my introduction,
my sunrise.

i had to beg the sun to rise
every morning.
i shouldn't have had to do that.
the sun is supposed to rise,
but my sun would not.

i cannot even remember that year.
i remember having fun,
i remember smiling,
but i also remember the tears
and the depression
and the pain
and the scars
that may never heal.

i remember how you looked at me
then down,
then back up,
with this disappointment i had never seen,
and i knew i had blown it.
you couldn't handle me,
i couldn't handle you.

you told me you'd never love me
"like that"
and you were right.

now i see you daily.

i haven't made eye contact with you in almost four years.

there's not much i remember,
but i remember the pain,
and
i
remember
the
tears.

the sun hasn't shone for me
in such a long time,
but you were never the only sun,
and you were never the last.

you were just the one
that never rose
to the challenge.
~this was four years ago who tf cares
Sometimes when I

briefly touch you

I want to sink into

the warmness of your skin

all toasty from that internal heater

you call a body an it's wonderful

how so much heat can come

from such a delicate frame

or maybe  you are my delicacy

to be deliciously eaten

during times of crisis

I only have to think of

the slight curve

of your pink smile

to find warmth.
In waking sleep we all expire,
remote organics built to tire –
searching lusts for something more
to fill our souls beyond our core

We lay awake inside a dream,
asleep within a constant stream,
alone, in part, to wander, lost,
with passing time our only cost

We play as shadows holding hands
with eyes wide closed and few demands,
our every moment briefly clashing;
fast forgotten memories flashing

Here, we count down from our birth
with time a thief upon this earth –
purpose teased at every corner,
Chinese Whispers our informer

But all will realise when we’re gone
that we were dreaming every song –
that death becomes another story;
a painless world of allegory

I fear we write this book forever
as single pages bound together
to lay inside our reader’s minds
in passing paragraphs of time
© Tamara Natividad
www.pisceanesque.com
Written 21 January, 2017
Cardboard City
land of broken dreams
life on the pavement
existence of extremes

lost my job , my home , my wife
No end in sight of my pitiful life

Down on my luck my life's a mess
living outside as outdoors  guest

A kindly gent puts a fiver in my palm
below freezing tonight
so it's
McDonald's coffee and a lip balm

So if you see me asleep on the side of the road
I sleep here because I have

No Fixed abode

thank you
Life in Manchester prompted this poem . So many homeless
One summer evening as light spoke its last
and covered with gold
opening rose-buds, a blackbird's late song
wrung the still air in passion
from nowhere as neatly strung cascades of
notes coated the gloaming
with soul which struck my heart in passing.

Delighted by listening were my ears dulled
by too much busyness
to hear crystal clear scales piercing twilight
with symphony as in my
childhood's countryside quiet where I then
heard magic in birdsong
and first felt need to describe the beautiful.

An inspiring muse to me was he once, he of
sweet trill which pleasured
my nights by writing his liquid lullaby into
rhyme, now again reminds
me to feel strength in his message, resurrect
the freedom of pen and try
to express thru' word his recital of self-hood.

Oh if only I could.

— The End —