#ostentatious
The sacred second...
When the wind has caused, a champion's roar
To the eave's of love, hap and skew, in the eyes of a pout's demon
I see myself, with a reaching privilege, to these the soul soars
Martyrs and deliverance, in the field of guest's asking if worths fire
Is a fire of rolling imaginations, and the mythic patience's of come?
As the lucre of our stillness, waiting on winds our of denial...
Lips of choice, if not solace, that has history's shoulder, for won
Friends of paces, if not the autonomy of she's
With the wit we see, in the damning air, a confessions turn
Of suggestion into a lived some, a place for a question of me's...
Was a harrowed silence, ours, for shrewder eyes in the earn?
The sacred second, coming of age?
Run duty, to the simple embrace of the sun
We remember the hope, the sincerity of love's wager
It's very soul, on a chosen peace, found in the steps of a common one
We, never were...
A habitual concern of voice and flesh, that taken share of need
Has come to heed, the arduous as a way with essences fear
To make the statement of a day, meant for greatness in the eyes of never's reach?
Alone in the world, without a loving God?
Half and notion to loosen the curse, of our problem with paradise
Which to fore, and whether to war; is life a question of love's laud?
Found in the heart, where a mind never saved the wind, for a friend wiser...?
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 12:03 PM UTC
I still can’t find the words
Because, perhaps, a part of me feels
That you’ll look at me like I have ten heads
If I say how I cannot heal.
Perhaps I don’t want to heal at all,
Now I am a vulnerable, scorned thing.
The looks of realisation passing over their faces
As I tell my sorry story, my frightening fabula.
The tale of poppies and lilies and
The coldest winter I have ever known.
I was skin and bone with a big black coat
And I didn’t like who it was that I was.
The tale of glassy eyes and cold ones
And throwing yourself at me
The tale of black and white pudding
Of Brett Ashley and Daisy Buchanan
Of ostentatiousness unrivalled.
I still can’t find the words
I’m angry, sad, tearful in public alone
Confused and bewildered.
Is that how you love someone?
Or claim that you do?
Is that the ‘nice thing’ you’re holding back?
Is that the swivelling chair or the casting couch?
Is that why I cannot seem to get over it?
Not over you, it.
And you say you weren’t well at the time.
I supposed we were both stuck clinging to each other
To broken to move away, to scared to be alone.
But no, this isn’t an excuse.
I still can’t put it into words
How profoundly odd I feel these days
You didn’t hurt me but you hurt me
And all I can see if your smirking face.
‘Calm down, you’re gorgeous.’
Oh, I could hate a hurt like that.
My sorry story, fantastic fabulam
Is it too posh if I speak outside English?
Why do you care? You knew who I was.
You know who I am.
You know.
And I’ll bet you also can’t find the words
So you hide behind cheap drinks and albums
And everything scummy because you despise who it is that you are.
Hoi polloi, the common man.
Whatever ‘common people do.’
I still can’t put it into words
And I don’t want to.
It’s too complex and I don’t have the energy to tell a story
To tell the world of the war I won
The hollow victory, the end of our empire.
Red lips, red boots, silver shoes.
Go to sleep, it’s over now.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 11:31 AM UTC