Nomadically
Motionless
Poetically
Awkwardly
Lonely
Happily
Sadly
­Soullessly
At least she didnt **** herself

Every now and again I like to sit down,
On a park bench, pew, or a bar in town.
With a cup of tea, let my worries untie,
And give a moment for each passer by.

I drift from out of the fore to the scenery,
An extra within the biopics of humanity.
Each person has a vivid and complex life,
Someone they love: family, husband or wife.

Within each person is an epic untold,
Each a vessel of the tales they hold.
Some are of loss, some are of love,
Wandering nomadically from up above.

And in each of these stories I play a role,
Sitting on my perch, warding off the cold.
I am but a tiny part of their life's narrative,
At most a stranger they exchange a glance with.

And I wonder, how ignorant am I?
To let each one of them to pass me by,
Without stopping them and enquiring,
What each of them is most desiring?

They are all chaotically unique,
Each one of them a kind of freak.
All a bizarre consequence of nature,
Chemistry, and their family's nurture.

Wide eyed as this realisation becomes clearer,
I'm sitting here and out of focus in your theatre.
In the wings for my cue, not yet a factor,
To step on and become your lead actor.

calloused hearts and bleeding fingers
harmony only achieved by sacrifice
the pure must stain their porcelain shells
and the broken
will scatter the ashes
the springtime brings new birth
as the flowering genesis of uterine obsession
but black boots and harsh words
may destroy this new beginning

in life and death dichotomy
wandering nomadically through purgatory
searching for contentedness
and rejuvenating rebirth
only to find myself further imprinting
old footsteps
from past and present life

Grief lives nomadically.
Flitting from battle scenes to grave yards,
Hospitals to back alleys layered in filth
The faintest tickle of pain
Is an infection: a parasite.
Eyes opened to the misery of every step
The every tear falling
The every heart aching:
To be perfectly aware,
It is a curse.
To see pain is to feel it.
To remember anguish is to live it.
Empathy: given out to waves of love starved people,
Until there is no more to give,
But thousands yet to receive
From a comrade in broken arms,
Who has made suffering an eternal sacrifice.

While you're away,
my thoughts wander
nomadically through
a sleepless desert.
I wonder if you're awake,
reaching to your left
as I reach to my right,
whispering, 'I love you,'
like I whisper
to the silence.

How can I sleep without
the soft cadence of
your breaths
singing me a lullaby?
Without the heat
of your body
reminding me
you're at my side?
Without your gentle
tossing and turning
to spur my imagination
and wonderment
at what could be alive
in your beautiful mind?

I've become an insomniac
wishing you were here,
wishing I could hold you again,
wishing you weren't
hundreds of miles away.
Rest only comes
when I cling to the hope
of your return.

Have you been bleeding ice again
in the past million years?
I saw it in your eyes back then,
the image of your fears.

Have you learned any words by now
that people can perceive?
That don't disintegrate somehow,
in times of loss and grieve.

Did you visit sporadically
or have you kept away?
You've always lived nomadically,
yet never found a way.

Is there a chance to meet you there?
Have all your hymns been drowned?
I really hope you're taking care
of the spiders we once found.