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Scott Madden Oct 2015
Term began, and autumn rifled with luster,
The trees shirk their leaves with growing bluster.
And she asked why she had to hurt her?
All she'd wanted was her galaxy cluster.
Scott Madden Sep 2015
For me dawn always comes too late,
Darkness weighs me down like cement.
No light can break through all this black,
By dawn my night is permanent.
Scott Madden Sep 2015
I'm drinking the moments that I've since drunk dry;
In these days when we were and the sun shone.
I'm sipping at the taste of your departed smile: lie?
And I raise this empty glass to our life gone.

I don't want this to be yet another whiny poem.
But two years on, it all seems so thoughtless.
And I am indulging you with my tedious problem,
Because at what point did you become so heartless?

I still exist in that endless summer day, your lover.
Reservoir through the trees, my love resigned.
And all you have left of me is that favourite blue jumper.
And all I have left of you are laughter lines.
Scott Madden May 2015
Unborn promises adorn your adored form.
Unbent backs bend ceaselessly at your toes.
Draped with wishes and kisses and warm.
A crowded duvet of people for your woes.
Scott Madden May 2015
She changes the weather.

A day when parasols turn into umbrellas,
And when umbrellas turn into parasols.
Undulating thoughts on an undulating day,
When the weather syncs with the mood lulls.

Howling wind hurls at the cracks in the house,
Shrieking at the effort to keep standing strong.
Walls bowed, timbers shattered, beaten, out.
The shell remains, a home that doesn't belong.

Lashing rain on the pane of the pain.
Flooding the banks of the river eyes.
Only relenting to an apathetic dawn.
Left marooned on an island of lies.
Scott Madden May 2015
A little book,
Embossed in gilded paisley swirls,
Bound with string,
Casting its shadow on that shelf.

A dark book,
Filled with muttered words,
Jet thoughts,
An inky spectre on that shelf.

The little dark book,
Paisley words and muttered swirls,
Jet bound string,
The inky spectre that shadows myself.
Scott Madden Apr 2015
Lying on my bed suffering a case of Sunday afternoon musings.
An apathetic approach to the inevitable week.
A marching fanfare of deadlines and due dates and doodlings.
If beige was a day, tomorrow would be just as bleak.

Falling through the inevitability of time and life and death.
Life is just a diary of appointments to be met.
Dabbling in thoughts and feelings before my following breath,
Moments follow the next whilst the last I forget.
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