Cigarettes,
I hate you.
I love your calming embrace.
I love your unique aroma.
I love taking a relaxing break with you.
I love your stimulating cancerous smoke.
I love the flood of chemicals you release in me.
But nicotine,
I hate that I love you.

Today I met four horsemen, riding on a trail
One looked hungry, one looked ill, and one looked deathly pale
The last one looked so angry, he had war within his eyes
They reigned their steeds, came to a stop, and took me by surprise

"The end is nigh mere mortal" the pale one rasped at me
"Your Lord has come, the Earth is done, there's nowhere you can flee!"
I pondered for a moment, and then a thought occurred
"It’s student rag week, right?" I said, "You all look quite absurd!"

I went on with my journey, and met another stranger
Dressed in a robe, with sandalled feet, he seemed to pose no danger
He raised his hands with palms outstretched, and I observed old scars
Above his head, the oddest thing, a halo bright as stars

"Prepare yourself for Judgment" proclaimed he in a lofty voice
He opened a book, took a quick look, then said "Oh right, you're nice!
First one today" he muttered, "Most go the other way"
"Of course they do!" I forced a smile, and slowly backed away

I bade farewell politely, and he hurriedly wandered on
"It takes all sorts", I mused, feeling glad that he had gone
I resumed my journey eagerly, looking forward to it's end
And all was good, right up until, I went around a bend

The path was blocked with walking dead, flesh hanging from their bones
The younger ones, despite their state, were using mobile phones!
One told me that his name was Elvis, and he used to be a singer
But he stared at me, so hungrily, that I didn't dare to linger

When finally I made it home, I grabbed a bottle of *****
I sat right down, switched on TV, and flicked onto the news
"Breaking Story! The end is here, The Apocalypse has begun!"
The reporter seemed excited, and was waving round a gun

Shots rang out and sirens wailed, not all of them on TV
I heard commotion, in the street, a bit too close for me
I took a glug of whisky, and it tasted mighty fine
"If the world was going to end", I said, *"I'm sure there'd be a sign ..."

Dear Lord please take our sins away
and chase the storm clouds from this day

Bless us with your strength to be
Examples of your love

And when you fall
Get right back up
People aren't
Always there
To pick you up
Too busy
Or whatever
Just get up
Someone will appreciate
Your worth, one day.
And you'll be glad
You'll realise
That all you did
Was a path to them
In disguise

Where is the wraith of
inspiration?
Where does the flow
Consciousness abide?
Where is the fulsome fire
of thought?
Where in the human mind
does it reside?

Words, like motes of dust,
float free in air,
but how does one get
the ideas, poet's
flare?

Ah! The motes hid from light!
It is not odd,
They are the
      *unconsciousness
                          the light of

                                            GOD