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When your phone falls down
The screen is already cracked
There is no hurry
Your haunting, haunting visage
akin to smoke
a remnant
mourning for light- any form of respite.
Spiralling and writhing languorously
to the sun.

In my mind's bleary eye
The dust in the air is
kicked up by your
Departing steps
which
leaves behind this scattered bouquet of
my broken heart?
Someone help give this a name?
Grief and glee are so close yet so far.
I glanced,
It saw,
I ran.
The sparkle was stolen,
maybe never to be found
 Jul 9 The Romantic
Feyre
i am a museum of my own creation.
the parts of myself exhibited to the public
are moulded, polished, photographed,
whilst the rest of me lays
dusty and forgotten.

how can anyone ever truly know me
when i am only
a moment, a picture, a fleeting idea
encapsulated as a whole?

but none of it is real.
and if it's all falsehood,
then what am I?
in a world surrounded by people, you are entirely alone.
Sewing Box

By Morning Star (May 2021 – Refined for Flow and Voice)

I see it over there.
I see it in the sitting room
while I’m sat on the stair.

A place I often found myself—
Sitting in the window shelf,
Early hours,
hearing you scream.
Crashing tone.
Angry sounds.
Banging doors.

Little one—
I hide alone.

Hope a little deer
doesn’t lose her little smile.
Hoping that the hare is out,
and gently bounces home.
Hoping that the moon still shone,
and owls still listen near.

Staring up
into the moon—
Wish you to return.

WHAT IF SHE’S GONE?

A promise often said
Made a child tremble.
Fear—
of being left
for others’ prey.

When she is gone,
the shadows come.

WHAT WAS THAT?
SHE LEFT THE SEWING BOX BEHIND.
As they may need it...

To slowly stitch up
slices of flesh—
or simply
tie a knot.

So,
let’s stitch up our empty hearts.

Say no more—
I’m through.
Torn, another night
we are
apart.

From what was made
then broke—
when a new life
she tore.

Children.
And we are older—
don’t need another now.

Let’s stitch up the empty heart
that can never heal.

There will always be
an empty space.
That cannot be filled.
Nor be replaced
by any other.
Cannot be bridged
or covered.

And will never heal.

She is gone.
My lovely mother.
Who I couldn’t bear
to be parted from.

She is gone.

Why not leave
my mother?
As we may need her.

Why not leave
my mother?
No—
I chose.
You made me choose.
You asked me,
and I said yes.
Go—I’m fine.

But I meant
don’t go.
I’m alone here.
Don’t leave.
Please—God—
don’t leave the sewing box
lying in the hall.

I’ll have to take the scissors out
and leave a scar
for sure.

Stitches
do not heal
scars
you are afraid to show.

Stitches only make you
see.

All.

Soon—
I’ll have to go.
Now leave.

Or I am to go.
But I may leave
no box.
Nor in a box
shall leave.

Alone.

For now,
she’s gone—
and
I am lost.
The Piano Bar

It’s every so often, more often than not.
I go out.
I used to sit home quite a bit, read, clean bits of this and that.
I’m used to being alone…more or less…I just now
Talk on the phone.
There’s magic in me…but there is in everyone else.
My hearing is lousy, but I can see all the tricks.
Years ago, I was soft and sweet.  
Like a fresh towel just out from a warm dryer’s heat.


“It’s never too late.”
That’s a lie.  
40 is not the new twenty
Menopause will not wait
Our bodies will die
And our hearts will stop,
But until that last beat
Hope survives.
I know how the story ends,
But, I am a sucker for a good cry.
So buckle up and let’s take a ride.
Is it a credit to me
That I’m not as bad as I should be?
I had it hard and didn’t crumble
Whoopie
I’d rather have had it easy
from
quitting
to
stopping

from
losing
to
surviving.
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