The Vase

Like a vase of dead flowers

bowing out of existence

once vibrant, where petals and leaves caressed

now wilted, they shrivel and fall.

 

Love abandons love

our hearts land hard

broken, like a shattered vase

the shards of glass

cutting like razor blades.

 

We attempt to pick up the pieces

though no glue can mend them

nor resurrect those flowers.

 

We sweep up the remnants of our lives

until only a tidy sorrow can question

what might have been.

 

Lullabies

You confide in the moonlight

night after night

your endless disenchanted lullabies

I know you ache to smile

through each wave of disappointment

yet the song grows older still

as do you.

 

Your world of false limitations

fantasies and infatuations

they leave you weak at the knees

far too eager to please.

 

You’re barely living, but very much alive

don’t underestimate either

nor the way you steal their hearts

when the mist lifts from your mind

when you drop your disguise

open your eyes

there’s more to wisdom than being wise

more to dreams than lullabies.

Hindsight

How often my heart sinks when you talk that way,

when you remind me

how it was when I was drowning.

 

Caught in a maelstrom of emotions, delusions and paranoia

when I was lost to myself completely.

 

Now I watch and listen, over my glass of gin

tonic, ice and a slice of citrus, bittersweet

pondering possible cures.

 

There are no answers

when the light leaves your eyes,

not even a healthy dose of hindsight, and wishful thinking.

Hypothermia

The thin ice where we danced together

had been weakening for a while.

 

I watched your smile and mine

slowly turn to frowns.

 

The cracks appeared swiftly

once they began to show.

 

We had shared the same dream, but

we were competing for the same ray of sun.

 

So the icy water gripped our bones

and together we drowned.

 

We pulled each other under

struggling for air in the deep water.

 

Nothing is ever solid as it seems

we murdered the dream that day.

Trainspotting

The baggage we arrived with roots us

we try to walk away, leave it behind

yet our wrists are handcuffed to the handles and

the handles are made of thick solid steel

the luggage weighs us down to the spot.

 

People on the platform hurry by and never seem to notice

at least they never stop to ask why we’re standing here

not moving

they’re too busy with their own concerns

they push past us like we’re invisible, insignificant.

 

We watch the trains come and go, while over the speakers

we hear destinations listed, platform numbers announced

we watch the clock change at an alarming rate

day turns to night and the platform is a ghost town

still, we stand here hunched over our baggage.

 

Seasons change and still we’re stood in the self-same position

weather beaten, frozen in winter, blue from the cold

thawing out in spring, sunburnt in summer

collecting the shit of passing birds on our shoulders

like statues of long dead heroes

the only constant here is us.

 

We’re waiting here all this time for the keys to the handcuffs

to set down our burden once and for all

to wander free of this open prison of guilt, regret and worry

but our keys are in the suitcases we hold

Locked under a combination code that we can’t crack.

 

We can’t remember how we made it to the platform in the first place

the luggage is too big too heavy to shift on our own

did somebody help us?

can’t recall-

they must have grown tired of carrying our dead-weight,

if they left us here.

 

Why leave us on a platform?

with so many destinations to choose

so many journeys we can’t make

to watch other people, get on and off with ease

watching trains arrive and trains leave.

 

We never consider the content of the baggage

grows heavier, the more we put it out of our mind

tears well up in our eyes, we ache from the burden of all this stillness

a child passing on the platform, loses hold of a balloon on a string

all we can do is watch it drift away, weightlessly.

Count on That

I was not the enemy,

yet I walked blindfold from the precipice

as darkest dreaming smothered me

I knew I couldn’t count on you.

 

Now, I wake from the blackout

to admit my foolishness to you

feel I owe you an apology

and a piece of my pain.

 

Sorry, never good enough

for your shell-shocked heart

and moral judgement

as foolish as I am

I knew I could count on that.

 

I was not the devil that tempted me

I was not the reflection that cracked me

I was not the darkness that took me

I was not the faith that left me.

 

Sorry, never good enough

for your blind anger

but I don’t blame you,

for you were not there,

I knew, I could count on that.

Footprints in the Frost

Soft sentiments, poetic

heart-warming verses

neatly written by innocent hands

on pristine pages of tidy notebooks

no torn pages, no crumpled paper

no dogeared corners, nor crossed out words

no bend or break in the spine of the book

with certainty, and self-assured peace of mind

soft sentiments, poetry

heart-warming verses

they belong to a character in a book

I’ll never write.

 

Because I’m starving for words

shivering and shaking at the back of my rented home

it’s winter at 4am

starlit in pinpricks of white

against a deep black sky

clear night

the silver moon in full bloom

thick frost glistening, crunching underfoot

a dog howls in a neighbouring yard

my breath wheezes smoke rings

that curl, drift, fade, soft into the cold air

Like ghosts.

 

 

I wonder why I’m out here

with you,

on a night like this where the currency of ink is all spent

and the soul shrinks back into the landscape

unseen.

 

I admit you caught me out

whispering at solitude

screaming silently

cursing shadows

caught me-

 

Leaving footprints in the frost

for you to follow

-before you dare lift your pen.