We’re just two lovers sitting in the park,
Waiting for the end of the world.
We do not rush-
No, instead we linger,
In earthy stillness,
Just to see if love never truly ends.
We watch the grass dance with bumble bees,
And the wind play with shadows;
All is quiet, until I lean over and whisper in my lover’s ear:
‘Bury me beneath that tree.
The one covered in green, green ivy’
That way it’s roots can fill my veins
And I, too, will become overgrown,
Filling in the lonely parts of us.
My heart will swell with rainwater,
And my soul can drink in the wind.
A spider lives on the moon.
She spins a web between the stars,
Weaving lines of silk against a dark, summer sky,
Like spirals of beautiful things cast around the world,
To catch the lost souls left wandering through the night.
A spider lives on the moon,
And I think she’s lonely;
Lonely up there between worlds,
Holding up the universe
In the absence of suns.
I wish I could be the moon,
Or even just a star,
To be encased in her soft touch,
And either of us would have to be alone.
Light filters in,
Like soft thorns on her skin.
She slips it through her fingers,
Imagining it a ribbon
Winding round her hand
So she can bring down the sky and it’s stars.
She listens to the wind
And imagines feathers on her back,
To fly up with the ravens
And greet the moon as one.
She recites all her spells,
And summons monsters she shouldn’t know-
Ones with red eyes-
From the dusk,
But the night was never hers.
My world is made of paper,
A drop of ink for a soul,
An ocean lies within my heart;
Waves of words to make me whole.
Oh, I long to talk to some old lover’s ghost,
To learn a little bit of what it’s like to fly with angels,
So in love you think you see Heaven.
Oh, how I wish to see looks of love and malice-
So twisted and rotten that I can no longer tell the difference-
Hatred mistook for passion;
Guilt mistook for kindness.
Oh, how I ache steal another lover’s dreams,
And be visited by anything than our long-dead love,
But even with you buried, I find myself haunted.
And you know I cannot lie,
You were right,
I am nothing without you.
But I suppose I should find comfort in knowing you are now also nothing without me.
Perhaps that is why you visit me so-
To beg me to release you from this brick prison.
Oh, how you must know there is no place for you outside these walls.
And once I and this house are gone, there will be no one left for you to taunt.
You’d be a fool to think Heaven and I are close.
I may be one Hell of an angel,
But don’t let these white wings fool you-
I am but a dove-feathered raven
Flying far from grace.
This place is full of ghosts.
They exist in the gloomy light of
In those dark cottage walls,
Lingering with a ghoulish fondness.
I find myself drawn to remain also.
Perhaps these melancholy ruins offer
More than fear;
They invite somber reflections-
Reflections of the living as well as the dead-
And I find it pleasantly haunting
To explore the shadows
That hint at the brief spans of life
That may have walked these halls.
Although I worry our friends may have haunted too long;
Now they creak and moan at the slightest breathe
Across the stairs;
Wail and whine at the smallest strain.
These quiet graves are full of noise;
Full of grave suggestion
That perhaps we cannot die.
We’re fated to pace these cold floors forever-
Bound by footprints left in dust;
Tied to ballads about lives we can no longer mind
But the world decided to remember.
Does the storyteller aways have a
Spirit in hand,
Alone in the dark
While spinning his tale?
Or can it be a wish?
Maybe a child?
One that isn’t failure, I mean.
Or maybe just a cup of tea-
I prefer that to whiskey and ghosts.
The Mad Creator
Mixing poetry and madness
In petri dishes made of cardboard
Searching for the perfect drink:
Make him drunk,
But not so he cannot write;
Make him numb,
But not so he cannot remember his dealings.
Make him learn to fly,
So he can learn to live like angels
To play God on paper,
But from the comfort of a desk;
From the comfort of a window,
Looking out at test subjects
Known as people,
Who know his name but not his face.
Not today’s face anyway.
I keep my muse in a bottle.
I shake it every once in a while-
Or tap it like a kid at a fish bowl-
It doesn’t move, stir or come back to life;
It just idly floats through its own filth.
I mutter as I flush in down the toilet
And put on my jacket to go buy another.