Drips from my face, molten soul
About to die and fall, on the altar.
Is this the life you said'd be noble?
So painful, and just too much pain?

No body to heal, no body to feel,
The torment, the ache, the anguish.
Ah, its hurts like a snake too gruesome,
Ripped apart I am in eternal sorrow.

Tears run down like razor blades
Across my skin
Blood runs red
Tears fall black
As the night around me
No one left to hurt but myself
My face and arms are dripping wet
Between the tears and blood
Love the silence
But I hate it too
The only thing I can hear
The thoughts buzzing in my mind
The shrieks of pain from my worn out throat

The rimer quenches his unheeded fires,
The sound surceases and the sense expires.
Then the domestic dog, to east and west,
Expounds the passions burning in his breast.
The rising moon o'er that enchanted land
Pauses to hear and yearns to understand.

Black
my soul at midnight
holds no hope
of dawn

Pretty,
your blood is pretty
and my oh my!
your veins look perfect tonight.
throbbing blue is making my head spin,
your pulse dizzys me.
let me taste,
just a little
and if i lose control...
well you must taste so sweet

The church was now derelict long deserted
in the tower the bell still hung!
Once a holy and respected parish church
left to crumble and rot!
The locals avoided this known land mark
especially after dark!

The familiar sound of the single ringing bell
echoed over the valley.
Filling them with apprehension and dread
it's tone always deep.
How it rang nobody knew there was no rope
in a place that had lost hope!

Sixty years since the sound of load singing
had filled the church.
Happy parishioners filling the oak pews
but faith faded as they died.
Others moved to find secure employment
few remained still content!

Visitors on the narrow lanes heard the bell
often they just kept going.
But attracting the addicted like a beacon
seeking a sanctuary.
Mesmerised by the rhythmic ringing bell
summoning them to hell!

The bell rang that single sombre monotonous note
a desperate soul listened before slitting his throat!

Beside him was his pathetic belongings and the
drug paraphernalia! The bell never stopped!

The Foureyed Poet.

Smoking pipe resin
Is much better than smoking
Nothing at all.

Primative man, pre written word had it easy,
When it came to wooing a woman,
It was as easy as
Lugging a 150 lb log
A few miles,
Fending off a pack of wolves with a stick and a torch,
All so your Cro-Magnon flower could have something to sit on,
To keep off the cold cave floor,
While she weaves baskets, and cures skins.
The simple song,
Or the rabbit pelt and the shiny stone
Have devalued, since the arrival of currency.
But a poem,
Masterfully crafted,
Is a currency all its own.
The value of which is determined,
Not by the poet...
But by the reader.