Daffodils rise and life begins anew,

Spring time, this time

Is full of sunshine rather than sorrow.

That will be left behind, to pick up again







glass bead 5

Game begins.
Little girl wishes she was a cat.
Counting not sheep to fall asleep, but the amount of lives
It would take to forsake old mistakes.
And like a video game
Always have a fresh start.
Game ends.

See those Swans at window?

See those Swans at the window?
She said.

They’re stuck in Ice cold waters,
Prickly feathers, frozen
But still gentle- My ‘Friend’.

As they tickle you in your sleep,
Floating into Blue.

Prey awaken as strong necks,
Cuddled each other to sleep.
One half for you, one half for me.

Nestling, lulling white hairs into that-
Good Night.

Goosebumps rippling in a circle,
Blood Tight.

Those Swans at the window
Their sailing around the world,
With one chipped wing
Each- a pair of eyes,
Shared between the two.
One half for me and one half for you.

Thick bottoms,
Circling, circling with no
Guided by the smell, the hope

Swimming with no compass now,
Sailing slowly
The doom.

Screen Shot 2016-01-20 at 22.45.42

Fickle Fires

Fickle Fires

On my mantle piece, lie
Candles which burn slowly
Flickering throughout the eve’
As the crescent moon hovers through the window,
Nearly crashing on my sill .

Head pokes out for a deep breath of air,
Sucking in a vortex of night time life.
Dizzying swirls which seems stiller than the day,
As circles and squares merge into the dark.

But, lets lick our fingers and sizzle out the flame,
Travel to the sun and stroke its raucous mane.
In an attempt to tame both ourselves and the Earth.

Blackened hands having been burnt to the crisp
As we look over the horizon now,
Only to tumble down into the abyss of light.


Dead Birds

heavenDead Birds

Empty words,
Dying like fleeting words,
Plummeting to the ground
Abseiling, curtailing
The grey concrete beneath
No longer bound to the skies.

Their previous masters, our fathers
The Saints, having too fallen into their self-dug/proclaimed graves,
Martyrs, who thought they were so profound
Have melted
Into the niches in the walls.
Pink, malign residue peels off of plaster
Paper skin shredded like wax- at the spur of
The Devils heated iron rod.