It would be when the air would feel like silk or like the hues were almost brighter.
It was when the hills felt lower and the low felt lighter.
In the speckles of day when I would sing to the tune of another’s brass,
Somehow my daydreams would still hold a conversation with you.
You’d saunter in with kindness and class;
The kind of attitude that sometimes I wish I had.
Your tone and diction were hard to imagine,
They lacked the luster and the passion.
They were all the corridors to every phrase.
They were all the oddities I wanted to praise.
I can feel the wax melt from my wings with just the thought of knowing you in abundance.
You are a Sun to my sand with a depth I should never learn.
You’re a distance that feels relaxed and at a level I could never convince.
At your hand would I bloom into my hyacinth petals or would my roots begin to rot?
Would I compliment your warmth by offering a place to rest or would my minerals begin to harden into a glass for my next cathedral?
It’s necessity the keeps the unknown locked in a mental maze that which I have mending to wrought.
Still, my stargazing will end when I fall.
Those feathers left to remind me of how little about you I’ve ever actually known;
And yet how bittersweet to imagine having ever flown.

One million reasons to cry
Yet I can't find
Which one's mine

Clashing waterfalls in the distance,
melting into glistening streams,
flowing into the vast seas of Poseidon,
falling down mysteries of the devil's triangle,
ignited by the scorching fires of Hades,
devoured ravounsly by three-headed dogs,
trapped in cycles of acidic torture,
escaping into the poisoned Styx,
Guiding screams into judgement day,
sailing past bolted, immortal doors,

Cleansing hatred from punished souls,
bidding farewell to the burning, grinning god,
finding solace in serene Oceania, scouring
the northern winds as liquid vapour,
pouring down into divine grass,
beginning again in the ashes
of Hyacinth.

It is true that
The hyacinth flowers on the hill
Will be trampled and muddied
By the calloused, bare feet of all who tread there
Until they are dead and rotted
But I ask you to find a place
Where the streams flow rapidly,
Harsh and unforgiving,
Dangerous enough so that no man will dare cross,
No hand may pluck you from the ground
And grow there.
Next to the water of the stream,
In the midst of all else good and holy,
Safe from the reaches of men,
You will grow,
Bright purple and untarnished,
Stunning in your own right
And I will walk the dead hill,
I will try and brave the harsh waters,
If only to see you with my own eyes.

i hear my love,
young,
loud,
faint to judge.

i hear the young man’s heart through my ears
it is me.
and his mouth is pouring but i hear hers
it wrenches me
i am bitter
angry.
i lose my breath.

my death,
the puzzle of puzzles,
which we call being.

There is a little flower
Sat in front of me
Purple and delicate
It tilts its head in pity

As it watches in forever silence
At my scarily endless tears
At my gagging devastation.
The realisation of my fears.

I'm thinking of my only Daughter
The very light of my being
That lost her life last night
A sudden, unjust reckoning.


This flower in front of me
Has a note attached to its stem.
It says "I'm sorry you lost Her"
But Her life meant nothing to them.

This beautiful, wilting creature
is meant to replace Her
As if a pathetic flower
Could ease these crippling burns.

This single papery display of nature
Is just as temporary as She.
In a few weeks it'll be dead like her
Tell me flower - was she robbed of life,
or is she free?!

Is this some kind of cruel joke?
They feel my pain "like an ache in their heart"
But as if to remind me of what I just went through
They give a grieving mother a dying plant.

And yet...
Its beauty reminds me of Her...
Its delicate movements in the breeze
Its quiet solitude and sophistication...
Colour of the deepest seas.

I'll enjoy it while I can
The lift before the fall
I'll give this flower a chance because
maybe it's not so bad after all...