The moon’s gone black in Birmingham skies,
A wail of thunder as the last bat flies.
From Paranoid dreams to No More Tears,
You roared through chaos, defied your fears.

A Crazy Train we rode with you,
Derailing norms like rebels do.
You howled at night, you bit the flame,
The Madman carved his own acclaim.

Blizzard of Ozz blew through the scene,
White-hot riffs, distortion keen.
You danced with demons, eyes ablaze,
In Sabbath’s shadow and solo craze.

No saint, yet sacred in your howl,
A prophet in a leather cowl.
From Mr. Crowley’s haunted keys,
To Diary of a Madman’s pleas.

You blurred the line ‘tween grave and stage,
A jester-poet, wild with rage.
Even The Ultimate Sin was crowned
With riffs that tore the heavens down.

And now the silence creeps ashore,
The curtains close, you sing no more.
But echoes rise in every chord,
Forever fierce, forever adored.

So sleep now, Ozzy, cradle flame
The Iron Man has earned his name.
Your voice, a storm that never dies,
Still screaming through eternal skies.

I remember you, not in moonlight or sonnets, but in the stench of smoke-filled pillows, half-smirked apologies, and the cold hum of your phone screen glowing too long after midnight.

Love didn’t bloom here, it cracked through concrete where **** and poppies tried to coexist, where we kissed like threats, mouths drunk on leftover gin and borrowed forgiveness.

You spoke in edits, cutting out truths like clutter, calling silence “space,” calling me “intense,” like affection was something to ration, not pour.

I touched your skin and felt the echo of all the hands before mine, none of them holy, just loud.

Hope tasted metallic. I bled through your quiet, left fingerprints on walls you never looked at, and wrote poems you never posted.

So when they ask where wildflowers go, I say: some rot. Some get plucked by liars. Some learn to bloom with fists. And some break through anyway, but they don’t weep. They spit.

In trembling arms I stood on the edge to begin new skin.
Her ghost still warmed our mattress, yet I dared to begin new skin.

Your fingertips mapped the hollow of memory to begin new skin.
Grief, soft as a wild thing, intertwined with desire to begin new skin.

In that hush where past and future whispered, I chose to begin new skin.
Not betrayal but benediction unfolded in each breath to begin new skin.

Dawn sifted through blinds, prayers pressed to my ribs to begin new skin.
Loss and longing cupped me tenderly, shaping courage to begin new skin.

In the gravity of your hold I claimed grace again to begin new skin
This heart, once fractured, mends with every pulse, Geof learns to begin new skin.

You reached with certainty, as if you'd studied my skin long before our hands ever touched. No fear. Just knowing.

We moved slow, not out of caution, but to taste every second like it was gospel poured from a cracked bottle.

You pressed against me, not hard, but whole. Chest to chest, breath syncing, a rhythm we didn’t learn but recognized in our bones.

Fingertips made circles, small and deliberate, as if they were writing scripture in flesh and memory. I answered in low vowels, open-palmed and unguarded.

The bed welcomed us, an altar already blessed, creased sheets echoing rituals, springs tuned to our rhythms.

Kisses landed where language failed, soft declarations etched into collarbones, the curve of spine, the held breath behind a quiet moan.

You whispered through clenched teeth, not out of restraint but reverence, as if the act itself demanded silence to be truly understood.

Limbs tangled, not in conquest, but in communion. What we shared had gravity, pulling confessions from every nerve, truths we hadn’t known we needed to speak.

When stillness found us, we lay in the wreckage of something beautifully undone, your pulse pressed into mine, our names somewhere in the ceiling where the echoes hadn’t quite settled.

We touched, the first time since... - Why do I feel so tearful?

You pulled up slick, grin full of trouble, eyes saying I know what you need, and I've got breath to match.

We skipped the soft talk, went straight to it; your lips hit skin like they had something to prove. Tongue like prayer, hands steady, you took me apart while the night watched through the blinds.

Then I spun you, dropped low, spoke fluently in every moan your body offered. No shame, just heat and hunger wrapped in rhythm and spit, us trading places till the whole room blurred.

Every inch worshipped, no shortcuts, just truth dripping from mouths made for confession. This? It wasn’t just head; it was understanding, shared breath, the kind of gospel that makes your knees weak and your spine remember.

After? We laughed, not like kids, but like royalty who’d tasted the crown and knew it was worth every word we never said.

I hear your blackness settling like dust across the loom of my lungs, each inhale a cavern so vast it echoes the promise of light. I know it will pass, but it is so dark.

In this calm of shadows, I count heartbeat by heartbeat, tracing the arc of a dawn that stubbornly waits beyond the wall. Hope is a whispered witness to the weight of night-time’s cloak.

My thoughts coil like wrought iron, heavy with the memory of blue. Still, I carry the ember of knowing that every eclipse holds its end, that even the longest winter breaks beneath a patient sun.

So, I honour the black, its truth and its chill, and trust in the slow return of colour. Until then, I will hold this candle, flickering against the void, a small blaze declaring that night bows to morning.