...

It will rain again tomorrow.
Once more you will hide behind the blinds, drawn shut
With a sigh. Why oh why
Must it always interfere?

But you are right, that it is no cause for worry and
You are content, are you not?
Confined, maybe...
Still, you always longed to feel this way.

Welcome to the true divide
O wide-eyed child.
The horizon is unobtainable,
All is, but always was.

Only into the empty air do we whisper our sincerest prayers,
Knowing none will hear and none will care.

At the Gates

Oh, Great Deceiver!
I, the wooden horse

You should have burned to the ground.

I am no gift, my splinters

Hidden inside
Like cracked ribs. 

Light the torch. Bring me down. I am no gift.

Cups & String

'Go gather by the humming sea
Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell, 
And to its lips thy story tell, 
And they thy comforters will be..' 

It’s a pity you have no beach,
For we could teach the shells 
To retain our words,
To console when we cannot speak.

We could tie two together 
With fishing line wire,
Conspire like children,
The shore silencing our whispers. 

A Tourist Memento

Frame the portrait of this libertine,
A familiar sight on Parisian streets.

Perched, gazing into emerald glass -
Half empty, the thick liquid drifting
Then crashing like waves into
A ship of crimson sails,
Carrying the tainted fruit
So that he may fall further and further from the tree.

In Albion, he lingers at the well,
Carelessly casting stones into the dark.

Penniless, slumped over the forgotten wall.
There is hope at the bottom, but he knows not
How deep the torment goes,
Only the mockery of passersby
Who, with pockets heavy, turn on heel.

Purgatory

I lie between the sky and the ground, and watch as the world
Continues in its reverie of black and white.
The streetlights become mere blurs and ghostly silhouettes silently
Weave their clouded blindfold.
The walls so often echo words I would rather not hear;
No prayers, no pity, penance.

With my ear to the floor, the cracked cobbles form jigsaws
Which trace and test the creases of my skin.
Mortar serpents constrict like a gritted rope that binds and I find
That my breath is lost.
No tune can I play to my tin-whistle servants that will cast them away,
Nor will the hustle and bustle of city commuters cease,
So that they may notice.