"clifftop" poems
I'm paying
for the careless laughs
I cast
at my poor mother in the past
when she would cringe
and turn away
as we sought edges
to enhance our play.
High trees and rooftops
cliffside walks -
whatever would extend the view
beyond the grim grey
granite grip we knew.
The humour lay
in knowing we were safe,
that these short frissons
were a break
between long stretches
of mundane and easy comfort,
free from pain.
Perhaps, we thought,
it does her good to gasp and shudder,
shout and blame -
she knows
that nothing's gained by shouting "Not too close!"
That just extends the game.
And then we're home
and she, once more, is sane.
That un-won wisdom
taunts me now.
The thought that fear was rare, somehow
that each new feat
of daring was a treat
the spice and colour
in a mother's life
which otherwise was dull.
Then, suddenly, my children,
you appear
and now I fear
that everything's
a crumbling clifftop
a wind-bent,
beetle-brittle branch
that you are twisted
in the fickle hands of chance
Your precious whims
your pale, glass-fragile skins
are buffeted by everything.
All ice is thin -
the wolves are real
it was not just the wind.
And even here
upon the edge of morning
misfired wires
inside your precious head
could make a storm-tossed life-raft
of your cozy bed
I stand beside you, out of reach
though long prepared
to meet the reason I am scared.
You curl and shrink
turn glassy eyes towards the wall
while I await the blow
that, thank God, doesn't fall,
this time
my youthful self
has found a cliff to climb
above a rocky beach
and cackles
at his mother's panicked call.
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 4:05 PM UTC
I’d walked back home by the clifftop path,
I’d only been gone an hour,
Rounding the point, it came into view
The sight of our Black Stone Tower.
Its ancient mystery suited me then
We’d picked it up for a song,
Nobody else had wanted it,
At the price, we couldn’t go wrong.
They said that a king had built it there
Far back in the mists of time,
And soldiers climbed by the old stone stair,
But now, thank god, it was mine.
A roof to shelter my Evelyn,
Though we supped by candlelight,
And drew our water deep from a well,
Made love when the stars were bright.
But now a breeze blew up from the cliff,
Was chill, and ruffled my hair,
And something about the Black Stone Tower
Was strange, a sense of despair.
For weeds had grown where the weeds were not
When I’d left, an hour before,
And someone had painted a bright red cross
On the Baltic Pine of the door.
It was only when I had got close up
That I saw that the red was blood,
And the door was half off its hinges,where
It was splintering, as I stood,
Then shapes began to appear to me,
Of soldiers, battering in
The Baltic Pine of this ancient door
To slay the soldiers within.
There wasn’t a single sound to hear,
There should have been clash and roar,
A mighty battle was raging in
The Black Stone Tower of war.
I called and I called for Evelyn
But there wasn’t a single trace
Of the love that I’d left alone in there,
That now, most terrible place.
I ran outside to the edge of the cliff
And stared down into the bay,
And there was the foulest, evil ship
Sails set, for sailing away.
And Evelyn strode down on the beach
While a soldier pulled at her hair,
Dragging her into a longboat as
She fought and struggled down there.
But this was a different Evelyn
To the one that I’d left at home,
The girl on the beach was dressed in peach,
My Evelyn dressed in bone,
And not in a full length courtly dress
Like you see from the days of yore,
As her ghostly shadow stepped in the boat
And sailed away from the shore.
I turned again to the Black Stone Tower
And the door was back in its frame,
There wasn’t a sign of the ****** cross
That had been there, just as I came.
And Evelyn staggered from out the door
As I cried out, ‘Where have you been?’
And she said sleepily, ‘Don’t be cross,
I’ve had an incredible dream!’
David Lewis Paget
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
Once I stood upon a clifftop
where the wind rose up to brush my face
my cheek,
blowing my hair behind me.
It opened up my heart to feel,
as if
God himself was coming at my heel.
As if I stood on the edge of time,
glimpsed beyond life itself,
heard the cry of gulls
beneath my feet,
howling some anguished message
in their desperate frenzy to eat.
I breathed the Ocean's scent
saw it's deep blue green erupt,
as it hit the hard rocks of time,
unbowed and unbent,
not to be tamed,broken or trapped,
mysteries remaining untapped,
forever.
perhaps only to be caught in my imagination,
like a photo, a painting,a dedication
for memories sake.
This magic,this ocean deep,
this pure,good energy,that heals and soothes,
the horizon,
where the water meets the skies,
these things,
I found
within your eyes.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC
I’ll walk clifftop.
Watch the sunrise fractured by a hundred different puddles, made whole again by the sea.
I’ll bleed peace and spill calm over ground that should’ve been cared for by now, and I’ll draw maps of the old season in battleship blue and a half-healed ****** crimson.
I’ll love them. Today they are mine.
Tonight I’ll give them away, and I’ll love them more.
I’ll walk clifftop.
I’ll pause. Watch the sunset rain copper-coins into a rolling-smoke sea, and I’ll miss him.
Jan 4, 2021
Jan 4, 2021 at 3:43 AM UTC
We’d moved on in to a clifftop house
When our babe was very young,
I had to ***** a barbed wire fence
To keep our darling at home,
For Ellen was a precocious child
With a beautiful, smiling face,
But for all our efforts to tame her down
It was hard to keep her in place.
She would bounce about, would run on out
The moment we turned our backs,
Many a time I would see her climb
And she’d give us heart attacks.
‘She’s halfway up the chimney, John,
She’s climbed right up to the thatch,’
The wife would cry, and I’d almost die
In bringing our daughter back.
She’d stand awhile by the cottage gate
That led on out to the track,
That wound its way right down to the bay
On a narrow, winding path,
I wired the gate, and I thought it held
Till the day she broke on through,
And made her little way to the bay
Before we even knew.
I found her at the mouth of a cave
That sat just up from the shore,
And breathed a sigh of relief as we
Embraced, like never before,
But she pointed in to the darkened cave
With her tiny little hand,
‘I want to go in the cave with him,
That funny old sailor man!’
‘There isn’t a man in the cave,’ I said,
‘You must have been seeing things.’
‘Oh no! He asked me to follow him
And he showed me lots of rings.
He had a black patch over his eye,
And a ponytail in his hair,
I want to go where the sailor goes,
Will you let me go in there?’
I carried her back up the winding path
Though she clung to me and cried,
‘That cave is simply an eerie place
And it’s cold and damp inside.’
I should have taken more notice then,
I thought it was just a rave,
For days, young Ellen would speak of him,
The man who lived in the cave.
I went to check at the library,
The history of the town,
And read that smugglers used that cave
When nobody was around,
And long before there were buildings there
A smuggler on the run,
Had sheltered there in that dismal cave
With his daughter, Ellen Gunn.
I raced on home to the clifftop house
To find young Ellen gone,
The wife was having hysterics there
And I was overcome.
I ran, pell mell down the clifftop path
It was such a deathly scare,
And searched to the end of that awful cave
And I found her Teddy Bear.
A fisherman on the beach had seen
Young Ellen on the sand,
Then watched as a sailor took her in
To the cave there, hand in hand.
‘I thought that he was her father,’ said
The rustic fisherman,
‘She seemed quite happy to go with him
And he looked a kindly man.’
I must have searched it a dozen times
And I called, and cursed, and cried,
And prayed to god that I’d find my girl
Hid somewhere deep inside,
When out of the depths, she toddled out
Stood still, turned back to the cave,
And that’s when I glimpsed that sailor man,
Who stood at the back, and waved.
David Lewis Paget
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 2:44 AM UTC
The woman on the clifftop
dreamed that she could fly
she longed to be an angel
to soar up in the sky
she planned her journeys carefully
all the places she would go
as soon as she had her feathery wings
as soft and white as snow
the villagers all laughed at her
and told her she was mad
that perhaps she should jump off the bridge
(to be rid of her they'd be glad)
but the woman did not care
and her dream stuck in her mind
as she thought of all the places
and the secrets she would find
she took a step towards the edge
and flung herself at the sky
and whispered as she slowly fell
"God please help me fly"
the woman on the clifftop
disappeared that day
and as her body was never found
the people often say
"she was a mad old woman
who dreamed that she could fly
she longed to be an angel
to soar up in the sky
no one knows what happened to her
and when the church bell rings
we look up at the sky and hope
that God gave her her wings"
Jul 22, 2011
Jul 22, 2011 at 2:00 PM UTC
There once was a man
A man “with a plan.”
For our purposes
We’ll call him “Dan.”
Dan had a friend
A friend “’til the end”
But a hand was one thing
This friend couldn’t lend.
Dan cried for a lift
As he hung from the cliff
And he hated himself
Every minute of it.
And they sat in silence
Obvious Passive Violence
But no matter how he tried,
His mouth remained flat.
Dan needed some help
Like pants with no belt
But his friend “’til the end”
Had no message to send.
And Dan cursed at his past
For things move too fast
In a world where you can’t
Leave the thoughts you had last.
And Dan cursed the world
The world he unfurled
Through the months long before
And his body felt torn.
And as Dan wept
Alone he was left
And his friend “’til the end”
Didn’t give the smallest little ****
So Dan cursed his friends
As his knuckles turned red
And the dirt in his fingers began slipping free.
And he cried out for help
Like pants with no belt
But a hand was one thing
That this friend couldn’t lend.
It’s a matter of pride
Of choosing a side
But Dan didn’t want
To go for this ride.
And the sun burnt down hot
And the moon burnt up cold
And his heart, it did rot
And his mind did unfold.
He cursed everything
From the sun to the moon
And a poison in him
Did bloom in the gloom.
He said “I don’t care,”
But an occasion so rare
Made this man stare
At his friend’s hollow glare.
As Dan’s knuckles turned bare
His friend, he did stare
And his friend said
“Dan, this isn’t fair.”
Dan knew he was right,
But straight out of fright
Looked down to the beach:
The glass man was in sight.
“You treat me so wrong,”
Said this man’s friend
“Please just tell me…
When will it end?”
Dan tried to speak out
Without having to pout
For he knew exactly
What he was talking about.
“Please, my dear friend,”
Cried the man on the cliff.
“If you could just lend a hand
We could end this small tiff.”
“But a cliff top, so high
As the one you stand by
Is something I cannot do alone.
So, please, my dear friend…
Be willing to try.”
And these mortal two
These mortal few
Who stared below
At the water so blue
Stared at each other
Thinking anew.
And as for their fates,
I’ll leave that to you.
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 11:07 PM UTC
The ocean moves like restless hands these days.
Abrasive: rubbing cliffs to sand and dust,
their spirits crushed to foam. Alone too long
is what I think, Aegean fathers pull-
-ing back their sons. But myth is myth, I must
admit. Instead, the water beats the shore
for natural want, its swells and frothing tides
some violent children, asteroid-born, conceived
from outer orbit kisses. Moon-side, roar-
ing waves arise, as high as mountain peaks.
Their tensions break and churn up flotsam: jag-
-ged wood from ships reclaimed. My lips, too, crack
apart from frigid air. The blood is cop-
-per salt to taste. But salt still, none the less:
familiar sea foam flowing through my veins.
Genetic instinct winds me back to shrines,
the Greeks and Romans knowing more than we,
Poseidon having planted home alread-
-y thick upon their lips. Ensconced in coves,
Amalfi’s citrus piers had housed the songs
of sirens, trilling hymns to Venus. Her
divine softness, human-wrought: distilled
from strong eternal surf. I think it wants
her back again. And so it hurls itself
against the shore to beat our body’s blood
back into foam. My feet are cold atop
the rocks, the goose-flesh prickling needles deep
in skin. My head is past the precipice,
suspended at the point of no return.
My arms are tingling in the rain-drenched squall,
beginning to dissolve as salt is known
to do. I take a breath before the fall–
a retrograded Aphrodite’s sigh–
now flooded as the clifftop leaves my soles.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
Fear standing atop crumbled clifftop.
A fleeting breeze whispers to me "what’s next?"
My Earth corrodes, this tearwater runoff
lifting fertile soil. Memories cropped;
despaired debris remains in frame. Perplexed
fear standing atop crumbled clifftop.
Two arms spread wide, frantic, balance I sought.
"Resist," whispers the breeze, "and breathe, reflect:
my Earth corrodes, this tearwater runoff
you precipitated; my ruin you wrought."
My toes begin to peek: the sea. Obsessed
fear. Standing atop crumbled clifftop
we teeter with unease that love means naught
when trust already sunk below the crest.
My Earth corrodes. This tearwater runoff
shall carve away our ache, and so we fought
against the chance that our love could contest
fear. Standing atop crumbled clifftop,
my Earth corrodes this tearwater runoff.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 10:05 AM UTC
I don’t know if I have enough heart left to give to anyone else in sharing I’m always
back at the start just trying to be myself and pretend I’m caring and it’s glaring me in
the face this stalled pace at which I’m crawling through my
own life trying not to cringe from the deep cuts of
the knife that you all call love it all feels
to me like a clifftop kiss goodbye with
a hard shove and from where I
stand it makes me wonder if I
misunderstand it what I thought
was the right way that I should but
apparently I really misunderstood
and it all makes me beg and cry out to
everyone in this part please save my heart there’s so little left of
the me that could ever believe couldn’t this
god ****** world just once let me keep a little
piece all I ask of this terrible wretched ******* lifetime
is a life that’s actually all mine let me build something and
protect it and keep it safe as my own beautiful charm safe from
the chaos and the harm am I worth so little do I count for so much less
that I should endure my heart being belittled and beaten under this much
stress I don’t even know anymore how to trust and the machine that has become
my day to day survival is so filthy with rust I just want to feel like I am a human being
with some worth and knowing deep down that I never will be, is the very worst.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
I should have driven away
but tomorrows are just the same as today
so I stay.
I could only become what I am,
what I see is what I'll be and what you want me to be is not what I am
but a man for all that
where the fat from the grist is dismissed as a fad.
I am glad I have grown and have changed on the trip, for to slip into old ways,go back to the bad days and chase dragons through walked ways where demons lay eggs
only begs me the question,
which to answer quite clearly is that
we're all nearly scrambled,
as we ramble on tracks made by ill informed facts and if you're in the know ,why then is it you go to the back of the pack
are you smoking some 'crack' is it a pipe that you lack?
let me look in the dustbin, we've been there before,let me pick up the droplets of rocks off the floor.
I talk this to myself as I go slowly insane,it's something to do with drugs effects on the brain and it pains me to say
that tomorrows will be just the same as today
I just can't get away nor can I escape from the greed of the grasping of the cold hands of fate.
So I wait for a break in the train of these thoughts that bedevil me,
wait 'til I see the whites of my eyes in the blue of my face as I engage once again in some riotous revelry,and in case that I think that I'm thinking to much and the thoughts that would touch me would rush to a clifftop
I stop.
Full stop.
Turn to look around at these things that confound me
astounded I am,
am I?
I am
I must be that man that would make me a liar as higher I go
up my nose goes the snow
and the warmth reappears.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
Dear Swinburne, how fell you if Death felled himself?
Did the wind not last, had the running sun stumbled?
What knocks the stone from the clifftop shelf?
What rocks the sea still since the high tide humbled?
If all that remains remains all that that dies
And immortal soul lies forever relieved,
What am I left that your lyric decries
But bereaved?
The same words grow from your garden grave
Where the thorns of the wrought lead roses jingle,
But rocked by the roar of the wild wave
The words disperse and forever mingle.
Time can unravel the thorns and the weeds
And the wind and the sea and the sun and the rain,
Unravel Death and destroy his seeds
And remain.
I pray that your song stands stable and true
Through the covers I turn, on my lips when I sing
As the first day your meter upon the page drew
And your rhyme first ascended on nimble a wing;
If not, let you molder with meadows of roses,
As lovers are buried by solitary men,
Till I, upon every couplet that closes,
Read again.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
Spring in the air feeling crisp on my skin,
breathing it in.
Run down the lane, over the clifftop to end all the pain
and the air on my skin drifted out,
drifting into unconsciousness.
Conscious only of that long lonely drop.
The drunken Angel despite no wings
flings caution aside and comes along
for the ride.
I dream of flying and dying too, but
never died yet and hardly flew,
few do anyway.
Tragic when the magics stop
off the cliff at the bottom of
the drop.
But it's all a trap that's set to get
the body count high and who in their
right mind would try to fly on
such a windy day.
The thief would want to steal my tears
unmask me
and unwind my years,
the Angel and I have a few more beers and
head for the clifftop again.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 4:37 AM UTC
Slowly I'll become that flower you loved,
A sunflower, a rose, a tulip bud.
I'll twist, I'll turn, I'll wilt, I'll forever be this guilt.
Slowly I'll be there, and slowly will I twist and fall in,
Throwing myself into the ocean where I can begin.
So shallow, so empty,
Is this all that there is left?
Slowly, slowly I'll be that flower.
Slowly I'll be the one in power.
Slowly I'll find a place where I can open my petals with grace,
Slowly I'll live once again.
Cautiously you will find me on the clifftop,
This time I'll be smiling.
This time I'll no longer wilt,
I'll be tall and strong emptying myself of that guilt.
This time the sun will bless me with all of it's hymn,
and turn your gun.
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 8:44 AM UTC
The clattering wind came back again
In the cold, dark hours of the morn,
There must have been such a mighty wind
In the hour that I was born.
For I went outside to savour it,
I love the wind in the trees,
Anything from a sultry blow
To an ice cold winter breeze.
And Miriam always chided me
I should keep the door pulled to,
‘You may delight in the wind at night
I don’t share in that with you.’
‘Doesn’t it tell you the earth’s alive
When it’s breathing, Oh so hard?’
‘That may be so, but just keep the blow
Trapped in our own backyard.’
It rattles around the chimney pots,
It lifts the tin on the roof,
And drives the rain to the window pane
As if to say, ‘Here’s proof!’
Proof that the world’s alive and well
When it howls and plucks at the eaves,
And swaying each branch so you can tell
By filling the air with leaves.
‘I don’t see the purpose that it serves,’
Miriam used to shout,
The wind replied and she almost died
When it blew the hearth fire out.
Hurtling down the chimney flue
Like a gale she’d made inside,
I said, ‘Just watch what you say and do,
Even the wind has pride!’
I’d say that the two were enemies
From the time she opened her mouth,
‘It’s wrecking my pink anemones
When it blows from the freezing south.’
I told her to hold her anger in,
She was weak, the wind was strong,
She hadn’t the power to save her bower
While it knew not right from wrong.
It came to a head when she slammed the door
On an innocent springtime breeze,
And sealed her fate when she muttered hate,
She was brought down to her knees.
Walking along the clifftop path
As she did, and both of us must,
A sudden blow sent her over, though
It was merely a random gust.
I go each week to the cemetery
And I leave anemones,
While lurking around the headstones there
Is her ancient enemy,
If only she’d kept her tongue in check
She would still be here with me,
Not lying beneath a howling gale
In the local cemetery.
David Lewis Paget
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
In dark or day, with rain or burning sun,
nothing holds as pure as a mountain’s air.
When all is quiet and the day is done,
I feel so much guilt for the weight she bares.
Among me are thousands of other guests,
Her rocky flesh, we will surely consume.
Myself, the trees and the animals- pests,
worsening winter’s night till summer’s noon.
She pushes me closer to her clifftops
I peer over the edge, fearful, yet numbed.
not fearing the pain, not fearing the drop,
but fear of destiny- to which i will succumb.
For my bones will become fertilizer,
to the ever-selfless, fertile mother.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
Better than ****** Christmas
this six weeks that we continually justify
that stop our hands breaking,
the dying of hearts and minds
though in the middle
somewhere
when we regain our human form
sometimes storms rage a bit
and we stand, clifftop howling
at an unknown moon
on return we’ll have lost friends, loves,
yet be reborn to care, to teach,
to take the slings and arrows again
from this pauper’s fortune
Jul 15, 2021
Jul 15, 2021 at 4:28 PM UTC
There was always something strange about
The tree by the clifftop farm,
It hadn’t been there when I was young
Till the storm blew down the barn,
Then once the land was cleared it grew
At a pace I’d never seen,
A raggedy, twisted wreck of a tree
That my wife said was obscene.
‘Why don’t we cut it down,’ she said,
‘Why do you let it grow?’
‘It doesn’t do any harm,’ I said,
‘It’s there for the winter blow.
It stands where it will protect the house
From the fiercest winter storm,
It may be ugly to see,’ I said
‘But it helps to shelter our home.’
The roots were massive and twisted, and
They spread, all over the place,
They tunneled under the house and then
Came up by the fireplace,
I chopped them off and I poisoned those
That tried to come through the floor,
And then I found there were other roots
Jamming our old front door.
The winter came in a rush that year
And we were buried in snow,
We hoped that there’d be an early thaw
But it didn’t hurry to go.
We stayed inside and we stoked the fire
With the roots I’d cut from the tree,
The food went down in the larder, but
The fire burned merrily.
I hadn’t so much as glanced outside
For a month, or maybe more,
The wind would howl at the chimney pots
But to go outside, what for?
Then Spring shone over the windowsill
And the snow began to melt,
So finally we could venture out,
I can’t tell how we felt.
For out there at the side of the house
The tree had grown grotesque,
It seems it had continued to grow
Beneath its snow-clad vest,
For branches snaked across to the roof
And clung to the chimney pots,
To hold itself upright and aloof
Where I’d chopped the roots right off.
But what had disturbed and frightened me
Was the tree had grown in height,
Its gnarled and twisted trunk so high
It was almost out of sight,
It disappeared in a darkening cloud
That seemed to hover and stay,
While other clouds were adrift up there
It was still there, day by day.
At night, with terrible grinding sounds
The branches moved on the roof,
They tumbled off the chimney pots,
Believe me, that’s the truth!
The wife said, ‘We should have cut it down
When we had the chance, last Spring,
But now it’ll probably take the house
So we can’t do anything.’
I know you’ll never believe me now,
It all seems so absurd,
But I broke out the elephant gun
At the sound of just one word,
We lay abed with it overhead
And the tree began to hum,
It woke me as I listened, and then
The word I heard was, ‘Fum!’
I aimed the gun up the tree that night
At those penetrating sounds,
I couldn’t have fired enough if I
Had had a thousand rounds.
And something hurtled on past me then
To land right down in the bay,
The tree was silent, it ceased to hum
And I chopped it down next day.
David Lewis Paget
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
Have the thoughts of
happiness been lingering
in your conscious memories
of what we were and hopes
of what we could be?
Stalwart lover, too afraid
to cross the binds of companionship.
As if staring from a distant
clifftop across the sea into
your starry gaze. I see
the life of what we could be.
Dreams, fragmented and quarreled.
Warm summer rain that
runs through our bodies, the constellations
shining in our hearts. Love
older than the cosmos,
passion stronger than the
fire that burns our souls.
Reality is distance, truth
is separation. And so passes
the time that could have
been what we could be.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
I’m not winning, I’m punch drunk.
I’m just waiting for the next disappointment
I keep getting battered, my best defences are weakening,
It’s draining me of all rationale,
The writing is on the wall, I’m going to end it.
I process these thoughts which lead to the bridge for some,
The blade or the pill or the clifftop for others.
But I’m aware, I know my enemy.
It will not defeat me, this most horrible of foes.
I see him in the mirror each day
This charming face belies the monster within,
This self-loathing, destructive ugly thing.
But it only hurts itself, only directs the worst venom inward.
You think what I shouted at you was the worst of it?
You’re crying! You should feel this in here with me.
This cancerous lump of emotion belongs nowhere,
It’s in my head, but not my heart.
Whenever the lights come on I still have that.
I cling to it like a life raft in the storm.
Then the clouds break and I’m free!
I fly so high it’s dizzying, exhilarating, fulfilling!
Until the fall, not like a dream fall,
Slow, almost inch by inch from a great height.
There is no soft landing, just a thud and the darkness
Then it’s Tuesday.
;
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 6:35 AM UTC
I can feel it rising up
I can feel it becoming a part of me
A waking morning thought
And a soothing night's dream.
Too easily do I end up here
This clifftop peak of potential joy
Too simply do I jump without harness
And too simply do I fall without hope.
All it takes is a smile
A good laugh and a set of *******
Then I'm drawn in like a dead fish
In the proverbial toilet bowl
It's funny how often I jump
How often I convince myself of reciprocation
But the truth is I'm ugly
Ugly in sight, in conversation and in company
I have a quick wit but a slow start
Silence is a majority in my life
So I choose this time to stop
To walk away before humiliation
She is beautiful, funny, happy
I'm quiet, slow and stiff
She lives with fairies in the clouds
I live with worms in the dirt
So I shall stay here and live
Avoid public announcements and actions
Avoid the weening possibility of joy
For the reality of loneliness
At least here I'm safe
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 4:10 PM UTC