I climbed up the third nearest hill
to watch the sun set,
on the day that you said
you love me..
Alone before sundown with time to spare.

I hoped to catch it amber and full,
on a hungry mid-cycle race all the way up there -
where exactly, I did not seem to care.
You disarmed me.
And on trial I were.

Alas my time wasn't worth it.
The sun hid behind thick layers of cloud,
the wind picked up and I could sense the rain coming.
It kissed me.
A bypassing train covered all other sound.

And to think I quite longed to hear this,
as if I didn't already know.
The forces of nature felt like an omen.
A warning,
against a tempting last straw.

Not sure how long I ended up sat there,
but Venus rose up to wish me goodnight.
If this is a test,
I’m determined to pass it.
An omen at half-light always means no.

i name any
enemy o’ mine
anaemia.
an ammonia
man o’ money?
oh no, on many a nome.

“okay, okay, don’t hurt yourself.”

pearl feathers you refuse to call white
scared it would mean something if you did
scared your scepticism will cup cold palms
around your warming neck and squeeze
what little belief you have out of you
a corpse will always be a corpse
but the soul of a wanderer will wander
into the wind and sky and I
and you too if you just let him
so let him

let him be the breeze
that forces you to stop counting
the number of days that have passed
since he last hugged you

let him be your buoy that
serves ground in an ocean
that knows of no stillness

let him be
the flickering light
the white butterfly
the fallen feather

he will be forever with us
let him be

I saw you from the corner of my eye
Flash black, you showed your face but yet your gaze couldn’t meet mine
Uneasy goodbye and sage burnt soon. Left this lingering feeling
Were you someone I knew?

I'm an ill omen,
I'm told.

It doesn't faze me.
I just put my mask on.

I become
a puzzle,
a labyrinth,
impossible to read,
not me anymore.

I'm an ill omen,
I'm told.

I wear my mask.
I'm fine.


I cry rivers inside.

You can't see how it breaks me.
You can't see how you hurt me.

I realised only now.

This isn't good.
This isn't alright.

Just because I can take it,
doesn't mean I should.

I bow out from this hell.

I will no longer apologise
for being me.

I'm an ill omen,
I'm told.  
                 Your loss.

.
I came to a courtyard of my own making,
To a cottage by the sea at the worlds edge.
I furnished it with my left over life, complete,
Barren and colorless and I wrote the newest
Book of psalms out of tinder and flame, a tome
Of grey and useless poems, unheard of songs
And reams of flesh.  There in the lightest dark,
By the Druid stone that was placed just for me,
I planted a creeping yew tree.  And the moon
Sang in celebration and silence like a fallen
Priest.  
                    Under the covering hazel trees,
That sprung to life after the longest winter,
Which taught me to forget my name, I now
Struggle with light and my body, warring, torn
Is fading slow, like the always arriving, down
Turning solstice, the climates of the mind,
Where it is digging the never ending shallow
Hole only the spreading eternal yew, that I
Planted, will ever know and only the Lazarus
Moon shall ever rise above.

I came to a courtyard of my own making,
Was it dream that led me there or my eyes?
.