Be strong, oh weathered anchor
Of a mind adrift at sea
Hold firm this home on murky depths
As familiar waves lap hungrily

Cry not, oh weathered anchor
Of a mind adrift at sea
As glimpses of a life once known
Ebbs and morphs deviously

Fear not, oh weathered anchor
Of a mind adrift at sea
The fight to grasp what once was known
Tattered image drips menacingly

Let go, dear weathered anchor
Of this mind adrift at sea
Slip gently asunder the past now lost
Unbound from memories, floating free.

.
In the mercy caul of night,
Where time is frail as memory,
In the technicolor film of ocean salt,
With eyes of yearn and mute wonders,
There, I saw you once more.
We walked through the rushes green
Of warmth, broke into dreams dawning
Meadows of casting light, where winged
Creatures, colourful as we, lilting in midair
Spiraled, drifting through the gleaming
Thoroughfares of endless Mays, of tingle
And flame, where once before, we found
Ourselves at the misty plateaus reflection
Of star shine and flight, nary silhouetted,
Yet, framed in the snow melted tarns
Of golden, glorious, Olympus.

The Dark mist, it beckons,
It curls its manicured tip.
I twist, no, I resist,
Pleas die softly on my lip.

I conjure my life's images,
Of decent well adjusted folks.
Crumpets, giggles and tea bags.
Pinks and yellows that it evokes.

But fragile as an egg shell,
The cracks they show some more.
Lust and desire bubble forth,
Crimson lies sprawled upon the floor.

I'm told that I'm the Good Girl
Of frocks, and poise, and grace.
Yet the cracks they draw me in,
Fingers touch velvet and lace.

The Good Girl she suffocates,
In deaf silence she screams.
Awake she hides the gaping cracks,
Plays freely in her dreams.

So, Good courtesies in the light,
Smiling pleasantries at the fore.
But with heads turned I come to life,
Filled by the Dark I fight no more.

Two lives I live in parallel,
Soft moan sneaks past my lip
I am the dark, I am home,
I curl my manicured tip....

There is a day when dreams are
Exiled, left to waste away --
The dry sands of tomorrow.
Magnificent dreams,
Too daring, ambitious, demanding,
Cast aside, in hopes that they’ll
Flourish on their own.
We’ll dream once more…
Tomorrow

There is a day when opportunities
Are swallowed by the tides,
And sink to fathomless trenches
Never to be seen again,
For there might be another one…
Tomorrow.

There is a day when unspoken words
With the potential to change a life sit
In one’s tongue, embittering over time,
Since someone else will speak them…
Tomorrow.

There is a day when the Earth will perish
By exploitive and negligent hands.
We were all aware of what was to come,
So let us amend our ways...
Tomorrow.

Somethings simply just cannot wait.
Perhaps tomorrow is a day too late.

Much adored is the dead poet

Within the glass case
Away from dirt
Amongst the books pressed
Rests his heart

Such was the silence he dreamed
When words streamed
Like riverine flow
In all might arose
Seeking the order in chaos

Orderly bound now his name
In peace standing behind wooden frame
Yet with the ceaseless commotion of wait...

Much adored rests the dead poet.