a winter night's tale

A winter night's tale

of string lights

yellow sunflowers

dancing on muddy pots

whose own blossoms

died last summer.

borrowed loves

can be beautiful.

jigsaws can fit

in strange ways.

perhaps it is time

to stop insisting

on whats mine

and let you

shine on me.

lost

silent sparrows
looking for a song
withered away
in a time far gone
nibbling at pithy remains
in the shadow
of hovering vultures.

missing melody

i walk through strawberry fields

looking for my song

bloody winged disaster

the centerpiece

of this life's meaning

come to me, i whisper

to a breeze that stills

give me proof you exist

that i am not chasing shadows

i know you love the sun and the fields

but what if...

what if you are allergic to strawberries?

i think i shall go back

to my dark room

where they said

you'd never come

it's your turn

to come after me now.

and if you don't

(acting pricey as you tend to)

life will follow

lost stars and sheep.

And we can be strangers again.

flashes

The familiar scent of the dogs used to mean home.now one goes feeding strays yearning for a nostalgia.home meant more.than a faded scent.

Dancing headlights of a passing car throw light on an estranged ceiling under which the body finds rest. And the mind goes searching. Through the alleys that passing car would have crossed. Going places. The somewheres and nowheres of the world. Of worlds.

The resounding silence of meaning. Creeps into the room. Changes color. Foams up. Sooty bubbles. Crack on a tear that slides down quietly. Without acknowledgment.

Old dreams find time to revisit. Putrified now. Faces gnaw at blurry eyed recognition's door. No answer.

Yesterday's woodpecker pecks for a while before realising today's iron door has closed out tomorrow. Wrought iron. Wrought. Rot. Some things remain untouched.locked away in the routine of prosaic everyday. The relief of banality is inexplicable. The hour of surprise is past.

That and passing dreams. Fading cars. Mirrors too honest to reflect brood in the comfort of the wall. Names and ceilings gather not the contempt of familiarity. Meaning loses grip on itself. Almost willingly. Knowledge seeks out its adversary, the repository of elusive bliss. A life in frames rushes past riding on a high speed train. A hint of a forgotten memory touches and vanishes. Nothing remains to cover the tracks. A distant whistle reminds one there should.

Death is a little room. Furnished with basics - space and emptiness. Life is an ornately done up lobby. Elaborate. Aestheticized. Nauseating in its sanitised hypocrisy. the doors between them constantly swinging. The two way traffic of many somebodies. Many nobodies. In the end only bodies. Its business as usual. Life goes on. Much like death. You complete me. They whisper to each other.