Untitled (5065)
akin to perusing a poem of old
revisiting mirrors
reopens unhealed wounds
circle-no-10 // Sorry I don’t do Selfies
try harder
Your sharp black ink upon white fluffy clouds
words once booming becoming me no longer
unfathomable constructs of silence lurks
behind the full stop icicles in melting
Tea leaves scattered
It can be read in the
stars fading before
our very eyes, the year of
our lord twenty seventeen
will be the end of days
the magic wand
What joy in a single
message
when received on Christmas
eve
having spent months in total
numbness
feeling not even the breeze of
wind
A single message short of
wonder
results in tears down cheeks
anew
She must possess the wand of
magic
to revive the spirit of ice and
snow
Memories of days longs gone
Bullets won’t stop me
I rule
I am the Christmas porridge
Cinnemon, and nuts for
all
Broken – apart
Please spare a thought
for those without
companions this time
of year. By choice or
random events unfolded,
none of us should be
alone, theoretically
spoken, practically
broken, apart.
no not twat – twas
twas the night before christmas
all poets fast asleep
solely reblogs appearing
amidst dashboards and quilts
A lone lamp of oil burning
candles lit at every end
A solitary figure hovered
awaiting words anew
from friends
divisive
The one word you chiseled
into my broken bones, the one
word repugnant after winter
solstice firebrand, the one word
poisoning my cherished well for
eons and beyond, that word was
divisive and long may it
burn
colour blind
Painting my own
demise. The thinner
indifferent, mortal
translucense actual
reflecting my inner
being.