I found a small piece
Not too hot;
Not so big
That I can’t cup it in my hands
And crouch with it,
Wondering how I can bottle
Such an airy thing.
So light I only just feel
Its crawl towards my heart;
So transparent it’s hard to tell
It’s not already left.
I know it’s there
I do not need to see it,
I feel it;
How can such a tiny thing be so much?
I daren’t ask it;
Daren’t breath too loud,
It appears so fragile
Compared to its brothers and sisters
Perhaps I shouldn’t doubt
What I cannot see.
Something that fills me with
Such a glow cannot be weak.
But if it isn’t it
Then it must be me.
Rain used to fall at my window,
It was all I could see;
All I could hear-
The constant drip of cold,
But now I’ve found my better days.
I am not myself. I’ve never been so,
My shadow and I just follow my feet
Down empty roads beneath the rusty glow.
In thought and solitude I’ll take my seat.
But have no pity, for I am not lost;
I can find parts of myself here and there.
Like here in the lone company of frost,
I sit with the dew drops, silent as prayer.
And I find myself in this little world
Of small falling leaves and a blushing wind;
Of tiny, wet flowers, glinting as pearls-
That which those with companions would have skimmed.
I am not myself, I’ll never be such,
But here and there, I can amount to much.
Left only in the company
Of slithers of light along the wall,
Drawing harsh, poetic lines
Across my work.
What happened to the day?
At what point did the sun give in
Laying waste to all I’ve written?
What happened to my words?
When did they too, abandon me
Leaving me like a shadow in the dark
Unseen and reluctantly accepted?
Give me enough time,
Let me write it down,
Let me show you the evidence
Of just how sick I am,
Let me prove that I exist;
I think these thoughts might kill me
Before I ever get the chance.
Put today in a bottle and push it out to sea,
Let yesterday get buried in the sand.
Watch tomorrow wash up on shore.
Castle walls of mossened stone
Etched in charcoal, left exposed
To the wind and sharp presence of ghosts
Looking out lonely, broken windows.
They look at the moon stressing golden cliffs,
Its aura stained grey by the clouds;
Black shapes writhing like beasts
Caged by the rocks.
Lights flash, far and dim,
From a world held in the distance,
Muted by the sea.
It sounds angry, baying at the sands
Set out like a canvas;
Brush strokes in sea weed, shells
And footprints long since washed;
Lives since drained,
Leaving only whispers pulled through time.
Blacks clouds crackle like static
And cause my roses to wilt and waste away,
So instead of picking flowers
I end up raising the dead
Who ride on the wind
To arrive like thieves at my door.
I am almost tempted to let them in,
But they’d only turn to dust
To dance and swirl in the cracks of my castle
And sing from the shadows on lonely nights.
No sun, no light, no gold-
No colour except black
And the unclouded mould
Of sky; plain, thin, old,
Marbled with glassy droplets;
But I remain empty, transparent,
Nothing, so cold,
My life a soul already sold.
‘I’ll stay up all night if that’s what it takes to be a star.’