Washed up

Tossed aside like flotsam
carried on your breaking wave.

I tumble to the sand,
a single piece of something more
forgotten and broken.

It isn’t like I blame you
you know I never could.
The allure of something new
something shiny,
something whole.

To fix a broken thing
takes time and so much more
it takes a patient ear,
a soothing tongue,
a calm embrace.

I don’t expect that
you will want to face
the blackness in my mind.
The bleak and hollow echoes
that thump within my heart.

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 Art of War

It starts,
As these things always do,
With the smallest of things.
A remark from me,
A comment back from you.

Suddenly the game commences
The battle lines are drawn.
We bolster our defences
Man the cannons, ready the guns.

The gloves are off.
The claws are out.
With swords unsheathed,
We join in war

Love is forgotten,
As vitriol grows.
Only the winning matters,
Your rules, my rules,
No rules,
When we come to blows.

Because right now,
You are ice,
I am fire,
Circling each other

Words fly like arrows,
Blotting out the sun.
The air is filled
With screams of rage,
it’s too late now
To turn the page.

Anger burns respect away,
Calculated barbs hide our guilt,
change the state of play.

And suddenly,
It’s over.
I deal the mortal blow.
Silence,
Descends on our battlefield.
Tears flow like blood.