Fairies in the loft,
Bag of rags, unwanted art.
Unwritten stories_

I'm told I'm bad at lying,
all too often I say too much.
When I get sick of trying
I find I flick from on to off.

The warmest smile can quickly turn
into an icy state;
in eyes which swore they knew you
-you will find there's no one there.

I'd love just like a waterfall
with no fear of running out;
'til from my eyes water would fall
like raindrops in a drought.

Now, the most inclusive laughter
slows right down to a flickering glance.
Fuses cut short
after weathering storms
and we dont know
how long
they will last.

Death fears me
so it takes what I love instead
and it's taken so many