I have seen Death
And he isn't a bone-white, saggy old man
Or a dark hood with a cape
And a vile, gleaming sickle.
No, Death is much different
Than the stories of horror
Painted in humanity.
Death has a sweet face
And soft, warm hands.
He holds you while you're weeping
And takes all your sorrows
With a sweep of his arm,
The twitch of his brow.
He catches the hearts of teenagers
With flowers splattered on their skin
And fire in their fingers;
Itching and uncomfortable on their own home.
He pulls away the chains
In the young's unspoken minds.
As they fly through the air
Out their Peter Pan windows
He is right there beside them,
And the bitter taste of pills
Is masked by his lips.
You see, Death is so attractive
With foggy fingertips on hearts,
The young and the lonely
Jump into his arms,
Make split-decisions in his smile
While he just tries
To soften the blow.

Your lips.
Your eyes.
Your body.
Your sighs.
Your breath.
My mouth.
My neck.
My thighs.
My head.
My heart.

You’re gone.

it is a gift, the friend ship, the kiss

on each cheek with out avoidance.

it may seem continental, yet we are

dolgellau. it is a meeting place, yes,

near the church. there are similarities,

yet this is not a metaphor.

we met at ten, talked of family,

one hour led to two, and overstepped

the parking time.

later in the garden, i thought of you.

i cut the paths and thought of you too.

it is a gift.

sbm.

I caught her eye from across the dim lit room,
as she sang on the small stage.
Her voice was like a Whistling Thrush
and it stole my breath.
She smiled at me
and never before had I seen such beauty.
She made me weak in the places I once felt strong.
Her voice,
her bright eyes,
and her coquettish smile,
they made me feel vulnerable,
but I did not care.
I was captured by her inexorable splendour,
and she imbued my love, fiercely.
I knew I had to speak to her,
to tell her how wonderful she was,
and how incredible she made me feel.
As she finished her song,
and skipped down from the stage,
I watched, painfully as she fell into the arms of another man.
He did not look at her the way I did,
nor would he ever.
Though sometimes, our greatest love,
will never know who we are.