You cannot own my river
but I will let you name the sea,
with its fortressed depth
and alien life,
all out of sight and out of mind;
the poisoned sustenance of brine.

Leave the blame at my feet
and forget me over time,
you can take the roads
leading north,
if you allow me to take the south,
with no chance of a future collide.

We can cut a deal over the reservoir
if I can retain the quarry,
it was never yours
from the start,
but you can play the victim's harp,
whilst I tattoo over my scars.

I will sing for the Star of Bethlehem,
you can fall into the arms of David,
you can make it out and
pay your dues,
shine lights onto your winter blues,
whilst I anaesthetise each painful bruise.

You can paint over the wallpaper
whilst I am replacing all my strings,
we can change the meaning
to our favourite songs,
I will sever the ties to unalterable tunes;
all of those words that lead back to you.

Consistency is thinning with the sun
Our minds crawl-
Yet  race on overdrive inside our homes and out in the damp streets.
Simple static,
A mental block of conscious
spread by word of mouth from one disaster to the ****** birth of another.
Another bag of bones,
Clanking over our shoulders-
With heavey arms to bare with
Another gust of wind full of ashes and crowds all dressed in black with their throats in knots.
The words inside our mouths burn as they leave
There is a kid with a guitar on the outskirts of it all.
Watching in as the faces drain from the bodies in the streets.

So he began to sing.
He sang about shades of grey
He sang about the spaces in between
And he sang about the heart that’s been thrown among one person’s beliefs to another’s lack of.
He strummed until the sky turned a shade of blue which resembled his mothers eyes on the night he learned what strength and will was.
As the wind hushed,
The crowd began a melancholy motion,
with their backs turned to all that was
Some with new sight and others in disbelieving disgust.
But one thing held constant-
though time had been tampered and irreversibly changed
They all hurt the same
Each mind had been scrambled like eggs

(C) Tiffanie Doro

I fell in love with a superstition.
She kept crystals at her bedside
to ward off wraiths and bailiffs,
selling friendship bracelets to
strangers on the internet whilst
keeping family in her prayers.

She would wander the fields
of **** and sunflower seeds,
howling at the moon without
another soul to converse with;
obsessive-compulsive murmurs
of a Hail Mary and incantations.

Potions of ayahuasca and sugar
brewed on the hob in the kitchen,
fridge magnets full of idioms and
passages from the Book of Psalms.
By the fire sat a pristine tin cauldron
with the price-tag still left on it.

Broomsticks were mounted on the wall
like lazy guitars or executed deer.
No photographs, only proud trinkets
and yoga mats; a crucifix hung over
every doorway, whilst she had learned
to cross her legs from all men and pain.

She laid me down on the bed
with a hungry sleight of hand
to show me her favourite trick;
I saw the marks on her arms
before she came alive in the dark,
and by the daylight - she had gone.

Together
           Forever.
                                         True
                                               Love.
                                                                   Beautiful.
                                                                                             Caring.
                                                                                                                    Us.
No. You are my **seven deadly sins.

I lie all the time, but it's mostly to myself.