Dreaming in colour; but I can't help thinking
in black and white — the anxieties that weigh heavily
on my plate, it's no wonder I occasionally savour
their bitter taste. Why should I rely solely on fate,
when it starts to feel a bit devoid of faith?

And some might argue I let them down, but
what if that low point was my decision to elevate
others — would you still have faith in me, or is
it simply your own fate that keeps me anchored
in this low place?

It could have been different.
Don't you think?

If we never lived.
The lives we did.

If fate didn't have other plans.
If death didn't take a vacation.
If one thing changed our direction.

We could be indescribable.
We could be unrecognizable.

Trapped in another time.
Destined to never meet.

It could have been different.
Somehow we could have changed.

Never be who we were meant to.
Doomed to forever stay the same.

Fate is funny like that.
Still we wonder.

Only in another life.
Things would be better.

Whenever she opens her eyes, she writes poetry,
And with every breath, she pens dreams effortlessly.

Whenever she talks, the universe leans in to hear,
Whenever she thinks, she paints skies crystal clear.

Whenever she's near, my soul finds its beat,
Yet somehow, we're strangers, destined never to meet.

Pressed against you like paper and ink
through the rolls of a printer.
Stories read to children
to help them sleep at night.

The author’s prized creation:
solar systems of endless
chances repeated
with each bursting supernova.

We could have a sky:
habitable or raining diamonds
or the catalysts for life ready to procreate.
Chemical reactions fusing into flames.

We are a fragile anomaly
of lives and worlds colliding.
We are words printed
across this infinite universe.

-My perfect match

Years of heartbreak sadly left me in such a broken state,

So I thefore concluded that loneliness was my fate.

But one day, Jesus told me ''dont lose hope, its not too late,

Take my hand my son and I shall lead you to your soulmate!''

I'll play guitar, you go to sleep
In the morning I will meet
Your eyes again,
But until then
My love, sleep well.
_M.

There is no pity in Berlin,
a place of prickly wounded pride.

A city of angels
who fell like scars of lightning
from gunmetal grey skies.

I watch old silvered rolls of film
and see flying columns of seraphim
as they march on by
row upon row
eyes ablaze
flaming swords drawn
in a parody of paradise.
They descended into hell
and are seated
at the left hand of the Kaiser:
Gott mit uns.

This sullen scene of no regret
stains the present with the dead and past:
It fits the flinty nature
of the blunt Berliner
under the ashen skies of winter.

I trudge across a gravel path
in the bowels of Berlin,
hear the grinding crunch
of brittle bones below,
and gird myself for the grim winter ahead.

for every thing, there is a time
for every song, there is a fitting moment
for every angel, a wee devil lurks
for every spring, its autumn

for every taste, there is a canvas blank
for every brush, there is a stroke unfinished
for every soul, there is a soul to spark
for every universe, a mind undiminished

for every beating heart, there is a dream to dream
for every happy day, there is a week of sorrow
for every wicked game, there is a sumptuous scene
for every yester-day, a million of to-morrows

for every tear you cry, there is a genuine smile
for every doubt you shed, there is a triumph to follow
for every faux pas, there's a saving grace
for every second gone, a million of to-morrows