Shifting apocalypse in a bleeding sky,
Wind whipped fire
And the maelstrom that hates at it's centre.
A dark eye
Malignant,
The unforgiving blackness
That hides beneath normality.
And the soft cloud layer, suspended
Above the broil of bitterness
That threatens to overwhelm.

I have nothing now but my pride,
Which may not keep me close
But we have never dealt with emotions.

Now you leave so willingly
My only choice to be as you are,
So cold and closed.

But inside I am drowning,
And like the lanes
it only takes one weakness to let in the flood.

We were young and touched by fire,
Yours natural, mine inflamed.
You remember those happy days?
When I had curls and smiled
Before being embittered by time.
A lost youth spent rambling
Across grey country sides.

Now you are a cold old flame
Who matches me by bitterness
And no longer sees what could have been.

Velvety liquid, lit from within.
The hidden shadows that plot from the folds,
But what betrays the dark
And flees to the latte light?
Amongst the cream the winged creature rises.
A seraphim birthed from crimson.
What forces oppose so vehemently?
Tectonic plates without countries
Or continents.
Giants in their own right
On their own terms,
On their own.

Where have those glory days gone?
When my mind was a solace,
When I built castles and held court.
Now I stand on a mountain top,
Looking at the cold valleys and wondering
When it got dark.

A family house, long dead
And dusty
Filled with books,
Covered with words that hold
No joy or pleasure.
Just bitter memories
I try and forget.

A serious face glares through the snow,
peering to the depths. The city hums
with the pierce of sirens, the murmur of shouts.

His pulse slows, His body thrumming. He is another part
of a jutting skyline. A heartless moon bathes the scene.
A lost battle. A massacre.

A broken ragdoll below warm the pavement,
beauty set in stone. The flakes track the dark leather,
pooling on the granite, being watched

Yet oblivious, the eyes glow through the screen.
Too much shadow for a plain bedroom, too much normality
For the sordid abyss of Gotham.

Has such insignificance always bred heroism?
Hours on laptops create such brooding scenes
of emotions that you cannot understand.
But who can understand the solitary idol?

The ground rumbles, the desks shake,
we all pause in our panic
breathlessly waiting to see if school will stand.
The tremors fade, so we file out in rows.
All in height order.
Waiting to be swept by the incoming tide.

29 feet of unstoppable chaos
spills on to a flat plain. Safety lies
just metres away, yet we are not told to go.
They argue as we stand in rows,
dismissing the threat along with the lives
of the seventy four children that died.

My mother waits with the sea eagles,
a year has not dulled the grief, as men search
for my body among the rest of the debris.
But I cannot be found with the silt,
like my brother and the rest ,
I am simply gone. My body lost.