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.
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.
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:
But a steady decline:
six feet under awaits, patiently
because Death knows eternity well.
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;
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.
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
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