I could not save you from the fire inside yourself.
I was fuel to the flames.
Was I fascinated or petrified by the scars you wore?
You brightened and burned
In a single breath.
You have always been an illuminating inferno.
I cannot help that I was drawn to your warmth.

I bask in your sun while it shines
Revel in all its glimmer and glory.
I do my best to bathe in all its beams.

For the nightfall will follow.
I will do my best to make peace with your apathetic disposition.
Accept the silhouette you embody.
I'm not sure I will ever be accustomed to this twilight.

It was a Wednesday and you were sorry.
I had found that coffee stopped tasting as good and rain became oddly ugly.
Puddles, which once held a sense of charm, lost their grandeur.
Apologies were routinely part of our dialogues.
Slowly they stopped making sense.
Like alphabet soup, the letters lost their meaning when they were jumbled in such chaos.
I do think you meant them, but I stopped wanting them.
I just wanted coffee to be rich again, and rain to bring gladness.
I wanted a full-bodied life back.

e                       I don't quite know what's worse.                     p

             Being 100%, completely broken
                      i
                                        ­                                               c
Or being 99% completed, and never seeming to find the last...


                                         e

i don't want an apology
i don't need a half hearted smile
because you feel obligated
i don't want your pity
i don't need you to feel sorry for me
because believe it or not
being hurt isn't new to me
i just want a "thank you"
that's all
for loving you
when you least deserved it

I write in pen,
for fear that lead would fade,
slowly scraped from the page
as ages pass.
Maybe grasping the inevitable,
whether leaded or penned,
moves my hand toward ink,
marks me for the passion to float,
not sink.
Despite that bite, I'm toothless
half the time,
a spaceship primed for travel,
but un-fueled.

So,
this notebook is your fuel,
empowering you to fill
from end page to end page,
engaging your will to strive,
thrive,
rise,
continuing to pen rhymes.
Not to live,
but to exist.

It echoes in the stillness,
A man's final words,
The impact of the passing,
Can still be heard.

It echoes in the quiet places,
People whisper it could be better,
With insincere faces,
And the echo comes again.

Still as death,
It looms in the night,
One might take a breath,
And have it stolen away.

It never occurred to them
That he might not be okay,
That this could have all stopped,
And he'd be here today.

There are so many things that could be better,
The echo would cry out,
Then life would begin,
And we could all go about.

If you were to walk,
To where the bay curves,
There is a cove with fishes,
And slippery clay,
Grey and squelched,
Between toes;
Here is where we played,
Under the seagulls call,
Between  the fishing boats;
Watching "Red Funnel"
Make straight lines
For France.

In my rocking horse sundress,
Red plastic sandals,
I collected shells and
Coloured pebbles,
Splashed in the warmed
Sea water and thought of
Robinson Crusoe.
My brother climbed
The cliff face above,
I watched him, still young,
My heart beating time.

And so we suddenly left,
Grew away from childhood,
From each other,
Drifted as the seaweed,
In and out with the tide.
Floated looking at the sky,
Calling out sometimes
To the echo of the bay,
For all those days of sunshine,
Of innocence and oneness,
Never to return as we were then,
Children on a beach at play.

Love to my brother ,Richard from Mary **