Life not lived
in still stance
glued to my tree like altar
dreaming of what could of been
roaming the Serengeti scorched trails
my flesh beating
jungle drums blaring
head high in a roof of galant green

alas the realness of reality revertebrates into my cold expanse
I am but a statue of beauty crafted
hands of my maker smooth but firm
as they caressed my curves
connected in that memorable moment
standing still in ticking time
ever eternal
state static

If I could speak whispering words
what would I tell you?
I've been used since birth
till death it will continue

I've seen spring
summer
autumn
winter too
naked to life's elements

I do not feel
I'm dead to the touch
I used to sit in a fantastic forrest flush
I longinly long for those days
when I felt the wonderful wind
Blow throw my spindly hair

Oh but it's gone
Instead
I'm listening to tales and weary woes
of wars had
Scars left
Tales of the neighbours wife
and wee jimmys strife
What a life

The days I long for..
when families come
with love and laughter
Galant giggles
Tenacious tickles
Forever times
but soon they depart
as I'm left enchanted
longing for the next encounter

But sometimes..
I'm as lonely as lonely gets
the lost key never found
Shrouded in a coat of sadness
Oh how I miss the place that I grew up
now I solemly sit
on all fours
as if the statue of grey friars Bobby
planted without roots

My only solace
Is the families fun
My only..
My only

The soft brush glides my aged papyrus skin, as it tickles every milli-metre of my being. A strange sensation never felt on my flat sheets, like a ******'s first touch.

I once stood beauty adorned, by the gaze of a naked eye, sheets of glory ablaze.
What is this foreign, flowing femme fatale?

My chest heaves and splutters, as it engulfs the expanse, of my silent pleas. I am glued steadfast to the only friend I've ever known.
My only escape, to peel my skin forward, and surely, and slowly perish into the timeless silence.

But suddenly like the dawn of day, I feel the glow of life reborn, as if a Phoenix rising from the ashes!

My weathered look, past and gone like a summers storm, as I stand ridges raised in my coloured coat

Dear, little, itty, bitty pencil…
You are rough, ragged, and pitted,
Left with no words to say, but
Those that are as dull as your
Flattened, grey tip.

I commend you for your service,
Being used by all, yet left with
No way to erase your mistakes.

Why are you itty bitty?
Have you just been used so much
That you lack the endurance
Of a sword freshly sharpened?

Instead, you’re overdone in the
Firey kiln of vocabulary.

I am a pen
Safe in a warm hand
I can write poetry short stories
Even novels
And I am always put away safely
Ready for the next time.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2017.

More often than is naught I carry the face of the villain.
Snared in this prison waiting for my turn to burn while
your fate is not so different from mine. My clocks still
yield some ticks and tocks yet before I go there stands a
few things you need to know:

They told me that your love was fatal, though failed to
hear the laughter of irony from behind their heads. They
cried tales that you were toxic and I could not save my
lips from curling. They said that your presence in mine
would design the suffering for those around. I was told
that you would leave me up in smoke as if God still
plays with dice. Your middling cigarette spends just the
beginning of their lives packing yet I waged it my
whole life just to spend its remnants with you. Addictive
by nature so let me take my pick of a million other lips
to secure truth that it is you I am addicted to.

I want you to simmer my skin when the world is cold,
I want to cast you brighter than a hundred suns hold,
I want to steal breath from your chest and place it in mine,
I want to make your heart stop like an eight-sided sign,
I want you to move my pistons and ignite my core,
I want you to saturate me as I lay on your shore,
I want to find what it is to go out with a bang,
I want to be that picture that fits in no frame.

I want to get you out of my head but you are
my song on repeat,
my hole that’s too deep,
my nights with no sleep,
my words when I speak.

Yet alas I hail from a pack known as Montague while
you bear the brand of Capulet. They will never render
us free in this life so when my time finally comes to a
burning halt, and my life flashes before my eyes, just
know that you will be the only thing I see in the next.

I am a simple bystander.

Upon my slightly rough surface rests libations
Libations sometimes full of color
and others devoid of any light

Along for the ride one minute he or she is calm or quiet
Quiet, and the next moody
Moody or wildly mad with passion
Passion for words sometimes strung in nonsensical or hardly decipherable sentences
Sentences forming the harmonious song of social interaction

In this I delight.

On my course surface games are made,
Challenges are placed,
Games and challenges are played, and it all ends with uproarious laughter.

On my grainy surface words are sometimes written
Written along with shapes and symbols
Symbols which for reasons unknown increase my value ten fold

In the morning I am desired and required
Desired and required I am sought
In the morning I am loved.

I am a simple bystander,
In this I delight.