dust

dust settles

dead skin

I trace my finger

through you

wishing you

were here

not gone

in a cloud

of dust

not spread

across my

furniture

like winterfall

and so

I don’t clean

I sit and stare

at the places

you have been

the places

where you

touched me

kissed me

before the rage

and arguments

...

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Tunnelling in the dirt below my feet
I've been digging here all week
carving this hollow so deep
today, I hit bone

This is heavier work than I imagined
surveyed the ground from beyond the fence
And we both agreed that this was right
but now the toil is breaking me apart

As a new day rises
I'm bawling in the shower
never knew I could feel this pain
with the taps turned up to ten
nev...

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My heart is a lonely flower aged by pain,

misunderstood by dreams

that where denied by life

A dead flower, forgotten,

inclined towards  hope

that  learned to give treason a name

However,

there are flowers that bathe themselves in the morning sun,

even for some reason that never existed

And although it is the most humble little flower,

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At the beat of a drum,
The world changed,
Blamed on many,
Caused by few.

At the still of a heart,
The world stopped,
Spun by many,
Ceased by two.

At the loss of a soul,
The world cried,
Tears of many,
All for you.

Dedicated to the family and memory of Drummer Lee Rigby, born July 1987, senslessly taken from the world, 22nd May 2013

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The trees, so hidden well by thickened wood,
While senses hide behind the deep despair,
He, ridiculed by those that can’t but should
And persecuted by those that once did care.

As fingers point and clone the loaded gun;
They choose a victim crying on his knees,
To watch him beg for solitude, in one
And disregard his perennial pleas.

The rights and wrongs of progress bliste...

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Withered flowers fastened to a wasting bench,
Its plaque and pickled paint are weathered long.
The buckled slats curl flecks on harshest winter's freeze.
Where age defies intent to which it did belong.

As passers-by whom in their daily cues entrenched,
They, wrapped in woolen shields, look blindly on
And notice not the broken petals on the breeze,
Nor sense the echo of a parted...

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Everything seeps in, everything leaks, in to this pale membrane.

The air from gestures, the pain and wicked eyes flicker.

The soft secretion of lingering sadness shelters like a veil.

Not haunted though, not lost to anything.

A door left open for a breeze to walk in.

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