life

This thing I see ahead

And so I turn a page and see
a future moment ahead of me:
a future memory of what’s in store,
of the past I have lived before.

There before my mind’s eye
I think about the time I die;
the moments I took without thought
and hard lessons that life me taught.

A distant time on a windy beach,
the sweet taste of a lover’s reach;
many moments encased in gold
sit in mind, wait to be told.

And on this page a picture bright
my face wrinkled with some fight;
yet the sound of my children’s voices
remembering I’ve made good choices.

But this is not the final page
upon which chance sets the stage:
I snap right back to this time
knowing, now, I’ve done just fine.

A Textual Reckoning

Soft fluorescent candle-light flickers
warped shadows: the Forms
in this cave.
Crickets chirping: a choir of beeps
surrounding him like his yellowed books.
A light, the light! Oh, Paradise.

You need to go now, it’s okay.
The Guide; the Muse.
Let go.
ABANDON ALL HOPE!

Clear!

What a shock: this green light I reach for
in this tunnel of light.
Oh, innocence; oh tyger tyger burning bright
so gently you came rapping
tapping at my chamber door;
in my madwoman attic nevermore!

Time of death?

A new gyre unfolds once more.

Meditation

Feet touch soil
so silent
but still sound.
Vines and trying times
creep and grow
around his weary ankles
and up his legs
anchoring him back to dust.
He waits in hope
that roses will grow
a crown upon his head.

His eyes are closed now:
he is expansive in his mind only;
at peace down those ten steps
into his own little Paradise.

Rest, now, breathe.

An Hour

Hold on for just an hour longer,
my Friend.
I miss you already
and the way your eyes smiled
at life
even though I know it isn’t easy.
Please put down those pills so sombre
in your shaking hands
and walk with me down the street.
I love you enough to care
in these riptides of sorrow and strife,
and I just need to hug you,
for you more than for me this time.
Don’t write that note much stronger,
call me and let’s go
on that trip we always spoke of.
In my head the tenses are confused
because you still are to me:
not was.

Hold on for just an hour longer:
please put down those pills so sombre;
don’t write that note much stronger.
Because you still are to me.

Stamped

Here we go, standing in line
with the sweet smell of innocence
and screaming delight.
Thus with a push we arrive
in our ferris wheel seat.
The light is as bright as noise,
and up we go.
It’s curious how it looks
from up here, still a bit strange
moving backwards but upwards.
The wind blows, and we shudder
but keep going till the top.
Oh look at the fireworks,
look at this climax!
But we dare not look down:
fear.
But a steady decline:
six feet under awaits, patiently
because Death knows eternity well.

Heart </3 Break

I’m quitting the show
Ain’t my time to shine
Time to quicksand myself
Deep into my mind

No silence up in these fires
Can’t catch a break in these tides
Don’t know which way is up
But I know I’m going down

So mad at all these spectres
Don’t know if they’re mine
But they whisper me stories
And I can’t sleep at night

I’m afraid of that silence
But I need that constant buzz
So I just sit here ruminating
How nobody else hears these sounds

 

 

An apology, unaccepted

It has been a few years now…
The roses have bloomed five or six times,
five or six times petals snapped off
in the winds, in the rains.
A few loved ones have passed;
a few scars have been gained.

Yet, here I wait, hopeful;
somewhat, perhaps.
A life unexamined
is a life not worth living,
yet still a life, surely?
I washed my hands of old times
and I know the dust is yet unsettled
On those ornaments of a grudge.

The dust sits thick and brown,
like my apology:
forgotten, but not quite lost.

Mendes 

He wants to hide with me 

in a tree-house of secrecy, 

cuddle into me 

and plant himself in my fertile soil.

He smells like wooden cologne 

and he holds me like he needs me:

up here we’re safe 

from shutters and flashes. 

It’s some kind of dream 

but I feel this like it’s real. 

Mendes, who are you? 

Why did you come? 

And why did we leave? 

A Scene 

Little Liam falls down the well 
Hits his head in some hell
Shakes it off and blames himself 
Now he sits on Hedone’s shelf 
A twist and tale, smoke for the screen 
Skinny jeans and kidney beans 
Acetone and Ritalin 
Falling short on Serotonin 
Little Liam lying low low 
So? SO?
Who gives a 
Cause Little Liam thinks he’s stuck
It’s all done with money 
The chopping and rolling of the honey 
And he’s in the making 
It’s easy once you’re used to faking