they told her
“your poetry
is hidden within”

so she took her pen
carved into her wrists
and watched the cherry red words
bleed out


x.

.
Snow drifts down
     laying a lawn cold sheet
across the frozen ground,
          creating art reliefs
like acid etching glass,
open space rolling and undulating,
in small hills and depressions,
     bedecked in a veil of white.
The silence is deafening,
quiet having been enjoyed
     and surpassed,
briefly punctuated by the call of a bird,
     A sharp whistle that shrieks
and attacks the silence.
The fresh smell of snowfall wafts up
     as it settles and glistens
in the light of silver moonbeams,
randomly peeping through clouds.
The taste of peace,
                     tranquility,
in the frigid air,
sends imagination soaring
from the desolation of isolation
to another time and place.
          The snow falls,
     falls,
in a relentless race for the ground,
               all is still,
               nothing stirs,
as the moor welcomes its quilt
and sleeps with a cold heart,
     dreaming,
                       of being kissed by the Sun.



© Pagan Paul (28/05/18)

It wasn’t sacrifice, no,
It was meant to be invention.
How many times have I climbed
That crumbling edge of cliff,
Confident, fearless of the wide sky,
I stepped into a place where
There was only air.
A hot rush of melting wings
And I felt what it meant to fall…
A broken doll, all twisted limbs,
Bruised flesh, bashed pride.
I had been warned of the sublime
Beyond a mortal’s reach…
A human body is not meant to fly.
I’ve paid dearly for my careless hope
Yet continue to believe there’s a lucky star
Somewhere in my horoscope.

Your Eminence:

Speaking of apostolic poverty
From the queen bed in your apostolic beach house
To those working two jobs to make life happen
Is pretty thin gruel –
                                                   serve it to someone else

i touched your soul
and scribbled my name on it
love, you’ll never get lost again