Standing on the precipice

Looking out into the underworld

One step forward, no going back

No sound, no feeling

Falling backwards run away

Birds gather around to see the wreck

Theirs the only voice I know

Wretched crumbling heart still beats

Yellow haunted eyes still see

The edge slips under

On my back above the souls

Sails torn and candles out

The face inside gone but near

If only she knew and realised

driving at twilight
        orange sky, blue water
                  my sons, her daughters


                                gratefully

The inner most of the heart
    is never articulated--it defies
    words and smears the truth
    before the speaker's eyes

  and love in its mysterious ways
  appears and parts in so many a guise
  definitions whether from Camus, Sartre
or Wittgenstein sadly fail-- each word corrupts and dies

I always thought we were the perfect match.
But matches are meant
                                   to ignite
                                         and burn out.

Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,