I can describe a rose in 12 petals,
A poem in a verse,
I can count the stars in the sky
As easily as change in my purse.
But you, my dear, allude me,
And I think the more I try just makes it worse;
I can never find the words to say
I cannot lift this curse.
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.
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.
We’re picking stitches out of the floor…
Are normal people ever this bored?
To the point of self-destruction
In order to feel some direction?
We’re catching comas to
Taking pills when we’re
Of course we feel the sting of promises
Beneath our skin,
We’re suns just waiting to happen;
Hearts just waiting to break.
Or have you forgotten the power of now?
Four little teacups sit on the wall,
And four friendly voices drift on the still, country air.
They sit down by the boats and talk about the good weather,
And family, and how Johnnie from across the way is doing much better.
They listen to the sounds of a dozen little birds,
To the gentle laps of blue water,
And wave hello to those who walk past.
They wait for the sun to disappear
Behind the pier;
To depart down the path,
To four little houses sitting in a row.