And Finally…

I saw it on the news today;
they found my body.
I was wondering where I’d left it.
Two days it had been there,
all alone and fly blown.
In its death it served new life,
a multitude of little breaths.
I rather like the irony in that.

Two days is a lifetime for some,
the end of a lifetime for me.
Ignoble in the extreme,
to have all those people
looking at my death mask,
my final gift to the world.
Roll up, roll up; come see the show.
From unknown to newsworthy.

They say that they knew
that I was having problems.
They say that nothing is that bad.
They say a lot now it’s over,
and I find that very sad.
They didn’t say anything
Two days before; didn’t want to offend.
Funny how two days can change everything.

Marionette

Tugged by heartstrings
twirled around her slender fingers.

His heart is made to dance
to her siren song.

Drawn by her promise
of regard and warm affection
ensnared by the cool touch
of bewitching fingers

He remains,
bound by a connection
that bids him to motion;
the dance of the marionette.

A twisted puppet of devotion,
a tool to boost her shallow ego.
A servant starved of need;
tossed scraps of sweet emotion

A subtle smile and stolen glance
keep him spiralling in the dance,
and at her whim his strings are cut
He lies forgotten; trampled underfoot

Seasoned

So it’s Spring
and we’re running through the park
smiling and laughing
noticing every little thing
like the gleam of morning dew
or the blush of your cheeks
on a warm afternoon.

Summer now
and there’s so much more to do
so much more life
but so much less…new.
Still, the sun shines, so we make hay
we dwell in our company
and wish these summer days
were here to stay.

Autumn comes all too soon,
wide blue skies turn gunmetal grey
and the wind strokes our shoulders
like an old lover remembered
on a gloomy afternoon.
And all the vibrant red and golden leaves
can’t hide the fact
that silver chases the colour from our heads
giving us a glimpse of a precarious thread.

Winter finally arrives
and now I walk alone through the park
where we used to run
wrapped up against the cold
home before it’s dark.
I linger in my company
remember summer days
the way you sighed so beautifully
while bathed in the suns rays.

As faded as the sunlight
I shuffle with the fallen leaves
and close my eyes
one last time
in Winters silent night.

Biting The Bullet

Sitting with the gun,
Staring at its dead black eye,
a cycloptic reaper.
The end of all things,
Just a finger stroke away.
Yet still I linger.

Do I greet the end?
Welcome the darkness gladly?
Stop the sorrow now?
Perhaps I should wait,
Pray for better tomorrow,
A much brighter day.

Can future hope be,
Enough to stay my finger?
A hollow promise.
A decision made,
Barrel against my temple,
I bite the bullet.

The girl and the lake

She reflects upon the surface
As the cold wet arms of the lake
Take her in their deadly embrace.
She feels the cold tendrils curl
Around her calves, her thighs, her waist.

The water pales her skin,
It darkens her lips
It shadows her pale serene eyes,
ecstatic in its aqueous grip.

The darkness envelops her,
the currents caress her
as the lake takes her under;
binds her in a fatal matrimony.

A cold, pale and bloated wife,
torn from her former life.
The lake is a jealous lover,
needy and clasping and hungry.
It pulls and it tugs; an insistent caress.

The flow of the undertow
balloons her white dress
as the life finally flows from her eyes
and bubbles rise from her throat
carrying the last of her sighs.
The lake is a jealous lover.

Facets

One is a carer,
a mender of hearts.
A rock to cling to;
Wise and generous.

One is a loner,
forever outside.
Fey and aloof,
He stands apart.

This One is a joker,
sarcastic and wry,
witty and glib.
He gives away smiles.

Another is darkness;
an empty glass.
He broods over shadows,
cloaked in shame.

There is one that was love,
so much to give,
but going to waste.
Crippled, broken,
He stands alone.

Parts of a whole,
drawn together
to fill a hole
that used to be me.

Afflicted

Life is an affliction
from which we never recover.
Enter the world screaming
And never stop.

Life seems fit to torment;
a torrent of dark abuses
gilded with a veneer
of calm civility

Smiling assassins;
sheep forced into wolves clothing.
We lash out at each other
to ease our own suffering.

Our oppressive pirouette
is deaths only distraction.
In the end, it equals us all.
from plus to minus:
an inevitable subtraction.

Home

Cold winds blow over a desolate landscape
howling through the hollow places.
Solitary footprints disturb the dust.

Frigid, forsaken and blasted world,
where silence is so loud
screaming its pain into the biting gust.

Jagged, jutting bones of failed relationships
the expectant pause of words unsaid
a symphony of regret; a chorus of misplaced trust.

Cityscapes of misspent chances mingle
with the spider web of broken roads.
A bitter and empty honeycomb.

Windows bulge with age and neglect
tattered curtains billow and grasp
for a comfort they have never known

No warmth; no healing touch.
No arms to hide in; to chase away the dark.
A raw and vacuous home.

Tempest

Explosions of insight
Light up the sky
As I lie here in the rain
And wait to die

A poignant moment
Frozen in time in my mind
The start of all this;
The end of all that.

A flash of lightning
Makes my pupils blow
And my tortured, beaten body
Lies broken on the floor.

I fought as best I could,
I played my part;
But I was overcome
And the thunder broke my heart