I can’t help but love it here.
The desolation elates my melancholia,
swathes me in haunted clothes
and comforts a need for loneliness.

To look upon desiccated cliffs,
trickling down to meet
the emulsifying waters
of a serious North Sea,
makes me yearn to offer myself up
to the ravages of tide and time.

How smooth I would become!
Worn to my bones
by ceaseless motion,
wearing the patina of eternity.
I would sigh upon the mud
settling into a shape of my own making.

In my heart I know
I’m just a fossil
same as all the rest,
who lie in wait
to be picked over –
anticipating selection
or discardment.

I hope to be discarded,
sent back to the mud
and the incessant ****
of sand and stones.

I shall try, very hard,
not to be afraid
when black night falls.
For I have always been afraid
of that which creeps and calls
through unilluminated hours.

But, if this place
is to be called home
I’ll get used to the dark,
bunk in with shadows
waiting for the trickles to quicken,
heralding the next great landslide.

Grey ashes of dead blossoms used to lie
Upon the paper waiting for discardment.
They died for my pleasure it seemed...
Every petal fading and succumbing with the wilt
That bleaches the vibrance that cannot live long.

Now into the garden I go that we all eventually know-
Going past the gaudy full blooms. Becoming happy and slightly
Dusty so as to inhale deeply I blow past ashes to the winds.
Then suddenly my pockets are raining seeds.

Oh, what melancholy
Can describe these cloudy climes
Which the Earth paints an epiphany of folly: revealing your twisted crimes.

I once thought truth was true
Feeling the zest of our embrace
The verdure of our love ceased to be-
No longer grew.

I'm walking down a path of autumn's
Bombardment; broken branches, tossed away dreams.
The cooling gust makes my lips numb. The chill comes from you it seems.

By the brook, there is a whisper wandering, wailing:
'Fear not, the future is near'
But how can I penetrate the smog settling on my blind eyes?
It remains unclear.

I can never win- therefore I cannot love.
I have fallen so low from the clouds above.
I alone, in my selfishness, can please
Beelzebub
And my discardment, shall to You, be the white dove.