Pulling flowers out of the grass,
Holding them in the sunlight,
Then let them fall ,
Past those deep eyes which hold me,
And that sparkling smile.
The mouth that spins that voice,
So unsuspected but enchanting.

Sitting there for hours on end,
Content to bask in optimistic sunshine.
There is no breeze,
To unsettle your hair,
Or to send a shiver
Arcing through my back.
But that needed no breeze.

Colour cannot bring itsself to be here
Here, among the snowy trees
Which have become so old, and twisted
That even they no longer hold beauty

The branches drag, and whip
And pull you in by the heart
Then leave you, a broken toy
To wonder searching for the hopeless

It is so cold, and dark here
And ancient beyond measure
The snow is long trudged
But bears no footprint
As the branches bear no mark.

Even a melancholy wind
Or weeping gale, would instill more joy
In this wretched place
But instead, suffocating silence
Demanding impossible cries from the soul.

These trees yield to no blade
Or to the sands of time and decay
For the holder of the axe
Will find his own blood in the snow.

You could not bring yourself to take a path
Instead lying in the snow, hoping against hope
for escape which would not come
It only lead you here.

A hand, grasping a human heart
Pulling at it from below
Making you bend inside
Stealing away your ease

No peace shall find you
Whatever path you take
A face, ever engraved upon your soul
Beside you, but afar

As you open your eyes at night
Those eyes meet you
Piercing your soul
And their owner does not know

And a voice, not theirs,
Not yours, whispers sweetly
Into your mind as you sleep.
Reminding you it's always there

Although it's owner has never been
And has never imagined to be.

Pathetic feelings take me
As my inner voice
Cries out for my spirit
A mere corpse in a muddy field
It never shall rise.
What can I think, of this life
When an eternity of effort
Reaps the same reward
As none at all
Why is it worth it,
When it all comes crashing down
And may as well never have been?

All those portraits in the books
In your hazy childhood
From the brushes of painters
Who you did not know.

And, among them a face
Which made you smile
That one had something
That seemed more human than the others.

You always went back to the book
Just to see that face again
You didn't know why
What drew you to it

The world is your book now
And it is full of many faces
From a maker you do not know.
There is still that face.

From your body
Seeps forth that ancient sorrow
a melancholy radiance
carrying a mystic prescence

I reach out, my fingers seek to meet
The rock, which has been met
by so many, for great eons
Since you were braught here

Standing stone, you have seen
So many ages pass, since those misty days
in the sepia of time
and you shall see so many more

I cannot invision your lifespan
it is distilled in my head
into the slow beating of a drum
and chorus of eternal voices

I hear your song.

I can see no Islands
Across the glittering sea
My mind is alone within itsself
Playing among the sands

No thaught, no reason
Only feeling, in sepia light
Everything is distant and dreamy
Like a smile from long ago

The nagging emptiness
drowned out by shimmering birdsong
the feelings of dread engulfed
by something worse

Beauty so sinister
A dark whispering among the lights
painful euphoria
and the urge to escape

I washed up here again
so soon after I built my raft and set sail
Hypnotised by the sound of crashing waves
on the island of the lotus eaters