Darkness pervades; an empty whole.
Tears fill this broken bowl.
The nectar too salty to quench the thirst
A brutal reminder of what came first

A Blackness, a Void. God illuminated into being.
Beauty, Belief, Faith - a false way of Seeing.
The futile attempts to make the hole whole,
but it's Loneliness that resides in our Soul.

In every being sprung into existence
the Romantic effort of Man's resistance
is Love, hailed as the Cure.
But ask yourself, "Are you sure?".

At a life with Loneliness by our side
Love's importance becomes amplified.
But Love is just a wishful lie
it is Loneliness that embraces us as we die.

For a time we exchanged lives.
Many a trait, from you derives.
Then no-one, no-one, no-one
could be you: The One.
Our secrets filled each other’s ears
spoken in a second; lasting years.
It hurts my mind remembering We
for you are now a part of Me.

Sometimes I wish we hadn’t solved our woes.
The saddest part to part as foes.
In my memories you’re still my best friend;
Moments show a friendship with no end.
In those snapshots we never grow a part,
Yet it is those memories that tear my heart.
Although but a fluttering butterfly kiss,
our carefree laugh is one I’ll miss.

As life changes so do We.
In the end we is anyone + me.
Because we changed as we got older,
so our laughs got fewer, our looks colder.
We may not make new memories together,
But our shared time will last forever.
Our contact now may be none to few.

I am glad I was somebody + you.

Death you are seen so repugnant.
Death you are sensed so vile.
Death you are deemed so untimely.
“Death can’t you wait for a while?”
But Death, aren’t you Life’s true redeemer?
Making everyone think well of the dead.
Death aren’t you Life’s other half?
Death don’t you tuck us to bed?
When our wanderlust has faded,
your embrace remains unjaded.

Death you are humble in your infamy;
Life the glory claims.
Yet sickness, accidents and war
are all Life’s macabre games.
That which kills you comes from Life.
Life will push to make that sale;
living organs mere currency.
Cannibalistic Life - advertising as a fairy tale.
Death you are left to clear the carnage.
Death – the coloseum’s sand –
innocently soaked in the blood of Life’s cruel hand.

Death you are Life’s psychologist;
motivating each step, each trial.
Making us get up every morning
to make each moment worthwhile.
Death you employ Time’s creation
to set a deadline to Life.
Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring
Death you are a scalpel; Life a butcher’s knife.
Famine, plague, disease, beast,
Without glorious survival, why feast?

Death your work with Time is inspired,
for we created it to understand your course.
With Time we can learn Life’s seasons
and record it’s length before it’s divorce
from our fragile clay.
Death you make us frugal with our Time,
yet generous with our Love.
For to each heartbeat’s rhythm and rhyme,
we fervently dance to give.
To make another grief-stricken Death.

For if Life is filled with meaning,
it is Death’s boon to us all.
Life becomes exhilarating –
A race before the fall!
Death remains a wallflower to the very close.
Death only wants to meet us;
a gentle lover with a rose.

Encouraging, yet terrifying.
But if we fear the Darkness, it is Life we fear not Death.
How often has a blinding Light been reported on a final breath?

Let me dance this life away
Let me care not about what I say
Let me feel alive and whole
Let me feed my starving soul
Let me squeal and shout with glee
Please oh please, self; let me be me.

Oh valorous and courageous Heart,
Scholarly love was all you thought to pursue.
But Life gave you another heart to love,
then, too soon, took her away from you.
A tiny heart was left in her shadow;
a child to blossom in your Life.
Too soon, too soon would she know
that Time betrays the greatest warrior,
Oh valorous and courageous Heart.

Clamp the red march onward!
Cut the winding trench!
Mask a visage for protection
from the visceral drench.

Light the forge in battle!
Keep the battlefield alive.
Hear the laborious drumbeat
of a heart trying to survive.

Stainless steel and knowledge
in the forge are fired
Gone are human needs -
Death is never tired.

On each second rests a lifespan.
Each minute gambles years.
A surgeon only has two hands
and no mortal fears.

The battle surges forward
as blood is forced right back
from the heart it came from;
a heart still under attack.

Even as the battle ended,
with blood, tears and sweat,
the war raged ever onward,
Death remains a threat.

Every day a battle.
Every life a war.
Against Death and the ethereal
survival is the score.

There is a voice that shouts to my heart,
"You won't succeed; just don't start."
But there is whisper from my brain,
"If you fail you get a chance to start again."
Both these voices are mine
It's true.
Believe in yourself;
your greatest enemy is you.

Write a garden into bloom.
Write a romance in the room.
Create, create, create
Life is short; Life won’t wait.
Shift, shuffle, sort, sift
Try and try your spirits to lift.
Do whatever is not writing.
You and your inner critic always fighting.

I am scared.

As crafters craft and artists art
all things Beautiful were once apart.
Brought together by Work and Pain,
Perfection is sought again and again.

But it is only through Agony and a convoluted sense of Direction
that Man and the Universe can create Perfection.
Accidental masterpieces brought daily into being,
Beauty is not only Seen through seeing.

Tears that cloud our jaded sight
make that once unclear terribly bright.
One view of the World is never enough,
it is the Visions of others that make our Works tough.

All labours of Love, do not always Love find,
but that is because to Love we are blind.
Love is an ability that colours our emotion,
thus, a single man can move an ocean.

A river, an ocean, a dam of time
each human is given his Voice to rhyme.
A wave, a ripple, a tsunami effect
that changes in magnitude only in what we expect.

These clashes and crashes, shatter and break.
It is not our Strength that determines how much we can take.
It is our Determination and Perserverance alone
that distinguishes a boulder, a pebble, a stone.

The cracks and tears,
the pleasures and cares,
mean that Beauty through Perfection sought
with Tragedy and Imperfection is wrought.

She was the sun,
He was the sky
She was the answer
He was the why
She was the poem
He was the pen
She was the party
He was the when

He was the instrument of her fine music.
She was the maker of his ideas.

Paint without canvas
Rhythm without soul
Only together could Life become whole.