At this exact second
someone, somewhere
is so elated
they could burst
into dazzling fractals
of every colour
perceivable

Right now
a polar bear
lays it's wearily
weighted head down
on the ice
to never
get back up again

At the same time
a simple soul
is laying in bed
unable to sleep
restlessly but contentedly
writing a poem
curled up
in the small
of their partners back

This very minute
someone sent their
last goodbyes
tied to a loved one
on a burning pyre
sailing swiftly
into the horizon
along with
their own happiness

And at this hour
a whole person
lost a piece of themselves
so largely irreplaceable
that they couldn't
possibly ever
fill that empty hole
except with a
salty sea
of tears

As one sun sets
another one rises

As one dims and wobbles
throwing it's last
lowly tendrils
of dull grainy light,

Another sun is rising
strong and high
shining beams
so piercing,
shards of light
so blinding,
that you couldn't
hope to hide
from it's warm
content embrace

Right this second
someone bellows with laughter
while others weep and bleed

Every single event
imaginable
is happening
right now

So maybe this
second
minute
hour
day
will get better

KG

the forest in June

i can feel the trees breathing, the wind whirring past their twirling leaves
the bark is course and clammy beneath my hands, notches and winding paths telling my palm a story of ages past
i can almost reach out and grasp the dancing smell of pine and wisps of a cloying floral tone
it's almost too heavy to breathe, and yet it fills my lungs with omnipotent liquid sun
flowers snake into my throat and down, deep into my chest
settling their roots like worms on my diaphragm
i exhale deeply and my breath leaks out like a creeping fog
it dissipates and past it my eyes bleed onto my cheeks,
dazzlingly delightful colours fill my vision, blossoming over my brain
and all I can think is how wonderful it must be
for my heart of green
to belong to the breeze

KG

How is it
      that I always
seem to end up
      drowning
in a pool
      of my own tears
when all I do
      is give
with tender hands.

kg

Never fall in love with a poet.
They will break you apart
like stanzas.
You are a metaphor,
a simile, an oxy-
*****.
Never fall in love with a poet.
They will tear you apart
like a rough draft,
burn you, and then
call it art.

© A. Leigh