As I am barely conscious
This blissful, sweet fragility
I’m empty, It’s perfect
Juts melting in my sheets
Just one second, til I roll over
And then I’m turning back again

How did I sleep with the heat in my shoulders
The absent resolve that I’m yearning, I’m craving
Where is the sandman? He stole all my bitterness
And now the wound is fresh again
It’s tearing at my flesh again
I’ll never rest my head again

I’m dreaming, my dreams in
My not so stable mind, but still
I’m moving, I’m feeling
What little I can find until
I hear you, I hear it
The heat it shakes me, burning wakes me
One sweet second more

Try not to think
Don’t blink
Just sink
Don’t think
It’s gone
It’s been and gone

I’m moving, I’m turning
There’s only so much apprehension
Only, one second
Before I change my mind, but still
This second, my second
of silence, you’ve stolen it
And I won’t let you run this time
I won’t keep holding on
I swear to God this has to end
Why can’t I sleep in peace
And wake the same
For more than just one second
When you’re mine

For someone who is always on my feet
You keep me on my toes

These memories of rolling down hills
As we capture the moments where everything’s fine
For a time
Til I’m turning again, with this fear in my head
That today is the day where the seconds roll by
And I’m losing my mind
And we’re wasting our time

This second, my second of silence
The longest second I’ve had to endure

So let’s survey the damage
As we light the film on fire
Feign a memory and
Hang it on the wall

We’re still coming unstuck
Maybe this is all you see
But with any luck
I can put your feet back in this
Distant memory

We’ll feed the fire and clap our hands
Climb the trees that were too high
I’ll laugh as the pot goes to your head
And we steal the sticks that made us cry

Up the hill went Jack and Jill
And water turned to wine until
They both got stuck and ran a mock
And Jill is getting tired

Maybe the vinegar was too sour
And the brown paper too rough
But Jill is trying
While Jack is dying
Nothing is enough
It’s never enough

Jack made rhymes to pass the time
That Jill could only dream
And now he’s there
She’s wondering where
Her tumble could have been

Jack takes a fall, but not at all
Without Jill close behind him
But as he goes, she always knows
That Jewels is soon to find him

Jack and Jill were fine until
Such pretty Jewels could blind him

In the yellow hum of the sunny streets
She sings
With a crooked smile, and deep green eyes
She sings
The song without words
That nobody knows
And everyone hears
Who comes near
As she sings

The boy with the threads and the beads
In his chocolate locks
Holds the drum with his worn-away knees
As he beats
With the palms of his hands
As she stands
And she sings
He casts a glance and he grins
In the warm yellow glow of the street

And the people, they smile
As the song drifts above them
The beat of the drum
And the lilt in the flow of her tongue
I can see from a distance
As the crowd grows and fades
With the two staying true
To the song that belongs to
the now of their lives
And it can’t be remembered
But won’t be forgotten
The time they were lost in
Was theirs
It was mine
For a time
In the warm yellow glow
Of the street where I stand

Placidly, I linger here
His love-bound eyes alone
Directly steering onward
Through meads unknown

My feet grow worn, ill mannered
Upon withered ground
The knight so true and lost
Makes not a sound

Yonder, a creature foreign
Her tread light-winged so
A mane, untamed as silk
With eyes earnest, aglow

My Knight-at-arms, though speechless
On sighting loves black charm
Slips from my hide, entranced
And in dreams palm

I pace on withered ground
Unbeknown to faeries black
Until the knight, he sets her
Upon my tainted back

Her warmth, entrancing so
And skin as milk
I dare to falter in the gown
Through hair, tangled silk

She sings with voice like water
A faeries rippling song
And tread we, through the meads
True to a day, long

The knight at arms she loves true
As says she, language queer
And fids him sweetened manna dew
With honeys tear

Approaching to her Elvin grot
De-mounting from my hide
She sighs and moans, the faerie white
With loving eyes wide

My master, as he rests too
Though holding fast from sleep
Closing her eyes, with kisses four
As she does weep

He then giving into slumber’s touch
The faerie upon his chest
He stirs in fear, through sleeps grasp
And wakes from troubled rest

The faerie gone, I did not see
Invisible all along, it seems
His eyes they search the hills in vain
For faeries gleam

And here we stand, upon the hill
With nothing to foresee
Abandoned by La Belle
Dame sans Merci

Every morning it is that same step, without fail, that I stumble over on my early morning journeys to the coffee grinder. A pointless step, a step with issues. The designer of that step has some personal problems that need psychological awakening. Why take it out on the staffroom entrance?

The lights flicker nimbly in sleepy neon blinks and I fumble at the drawers for a moderately clean teaspoon. The grinder is empty- just my luck.

Somewhat disappointed in my unnecessary success in locating a clean teaspoon, I rest my legs, collapsing into the leathery, torn couch that moans in protest.

The room is dark, but the lights gradually pick up speed, and after half an hour of thumb twiddling and foot tapping, I am awake enough to survey the daily notice board.

Nothing too interesting, a stick-it note about a student with notoriously low pants who should be penalised upon identification.

A memo regarding the carpet cleaners arriving Tuesday.

I pull out me pencil and scratch down a somewhat aggressive message to my fellow co-workers about allowing enough coffee to be rationed for each and every one of us. I smile and nod contentedly at my nobility, and begin to turn towards that troublesome door…but something catches my eye.

A thumbnail Polaroid in the corner of the notice board, firmly secured with a pink pin.

My eyes struggle to adjust to the dim lighting, and size of the picture. It barely fills the small space.

It is a snapshot of a baby’s tender, wrinkled hand clasped around a pair of fingers withered, faded and blotchy- a little like my own.

This is not unlike other touching photographs I have seen, but there is still a profound sense of sentimentality attached to that small portrait.

I realise how long I have stood, gazing at the noticeboard, and allow my eyes to wander downwards, to a floral bordered letter posted below the photograph.

A Prayer chain.

Our condolences and heartfelt empathy to the Edwards family, whose two month old baby girl, Shae, was taken from them jus yesterday afternoon. The child had been born suffering internal bleeding, in need of organ transplants and a collapsed lung. After two months of fighting and growing love, she died in hospital.

Please leave a thought for the Edwards family as you go about your day.

The piercing quiet rings out through the room, and I feel tears dripping from my cheeks.

The clarity that rushes through me creates a severe self-anguish, as I survey my petty complaints about the coffee grinder. I angrily remove my contribution to the board, and rub my hands over my face.

The sound of my own silent weeping stirs a realisation in my pounding head.

“Edwards…his name is Mr. Edwards”.

I am dancing in the dark
and it seems, to be seen
by the roadside, barefooted
as I twist and I lean
in my dance in the darkness
With blindness and beauty
my senses are led
When even the owls, in the knots of the trees
choose to woo at the moon
instead
Still, I go on dancing
not a question in mind
for the quiet that moves me
the silence, my rhythm
is felt in the beat of my skin
and I find
as it sweats through my veins
quick and heavy
the energy swims
and the silence remains
as headlights, a blur
and the streetlights above
turn to inkblots
in the lids of my eyes
and I’m gone
turning, spinning, absorbed in the nothing
that I have become
as it fills me
this static that lurches and leaps
in my chest
in my hands
in my feet
as I dance
in my world of black ink
with the owls and the moon
and the filth on my feet
with a curious heat
burns my skin
from within
and I’m gone
one, two, six
one, two, nine
one, two, one
holds the time
and it’s mine
in my dance in the dark

a spot of ancient writing

It Hurts

but its beautiful
destined for grief
and joy
the choice will tear me

to shreds

i hate it.
i love it.

its mine.

but i have to lose it
to hold onto what i love

but what if
what i really love
not quite so much
but enough to complete me

unlike any other

what if this love
doesnt judge?
doesnt hurt?
doesnt care what i choose?
but secretly…will cry if it is left alone

this kind of love

hurts