The Truth was
He didnโt Care
I wrote this many years ago, I now see that it wasn’t the truth then, deep down something cared and continued to fuel life. That fire now cold, fiction finally catching up with reality.
delusional
I loved the writing right up until the point I
realised nobody else did, so I questioned
the sanity, the arbitrary grasping for the heart,
mindful of the multitude and multiverse I
chose the lesser path. I married ink, the
divorce so so painful.
innocence – overruled
there is a difficulty within,
preventing true friendship
blossoming. It is mine though
I take no responsibility for
conceiving or the nurture of
said difficulty. The genetics
being as they are, could be
factored times ten minus the
baby pram, winter bound.
Blameless, nameless as
the passing of time rules
that ignorance of fools is
just that – overruled
no more
reality is fading
into a misty background
my London covered in
a fog so bleak
the rolling hills of green is
fading
my hope of living long is
dying
a tuppence bounce is
ending
humming
pleasing for the sake of
pleasure, raping for the sake of
rapture, the innocence bleeding
dry while we stand aside –
humming
the last song
lemon makes lemonade
stained pants
soiled souls
we could have had it all
but you chose none
lame duck no luck
lime aid – portrait
wishing
no one sang
the last song
in tune – breathless
R&R
Two out six remained
your steel guitar still bled
screams of passion
fuseless amp
my heart longing
once again
The anatomy of love
The sizzles of the lit fuse. Perfectly wrapped
parcels under a Christmas tree. The popping of fizzy bottles. The waking up with back eye throbbing. The staying on, loving.
starting over
About a year ago, on this very day, December got tired of ruling and asked a friend:
“Hi January, could you please take over? I need a rest from the fest. Let’s do like last year, if you get my drift.”
“Sure, no worries, I’ll take the reign. Sprinkle a few flurries of snow to ease those in pain”
So January prepared, as far as possibilities go, the awakening of winter,
the icicle of new.
Prompted by a @maxmundan prompt: starting over