Saturday, 23 June 2012

The Hollow Husk

I gave my soul away,
To whom I cannot recall.
Wandering lonely in the dark,
My hand runs the wet cold wall.
Inside I'm just a rat in a maze:
Inside, an eternal fight.
Whom has the quest to lift this curse,
Who can put it right.
So I wander on waiting
For the day to save my soul,
No light at the end of the tunnel,
No relent in the endless goal.
I fear not in the dark,
Which I do of I,
My own worst enemy;
He whom tells to give up and die.
I wish I could hear,
I wish I only asked why.

Sunday, 17 June 2012

The Hard And Dirty Feet

One pair of feet
Carry this sad sack of shit,
Through this meandering mess of a life.
Holding only memories,
The rest slipping;
Falling through the gaps
Never to be seen again.
Searching, forever searching,
Never finding,
Not knowing what's even being searched for.
Moving like the wandering dead,
A deathly shadow with no place to rest;
No place that feels like home,
No love to kindle love:
The love that burns, yearning.
And so, these lonely feet
Continue to roam.

Waiting For Her Sun

The air sits still in the valley,
As the wind rushes past above,
Spots of rain begin to infest
Each of the slate flagstones.
The trees watch silently
The day passing by,
In this forever lonely
Grey pallor world.
Like the hours before the dawn,
Dark and deathly;
Where nothing seems to move,
Only the rain falling
In lethargic tear drops.

Crying out for the warm kiss of sun,
To feel her touch
Upon skin, earth, and everything
Blessed by her beauty:
Golden rays, brushing over the land
Like the long angel locks,
Falling from her crown,
Framing this world, mirroring
Her enigmatic face
That captures the heart
At the very first glance.
Clear the weeping rain from the step,
Running hands through golden hair;
Come sweet kissing sun.

Saturday, 9 June 2012

A Flower Kept In A Pocket

You can't see the words I speak
When nobody is around,
Or what I think when I look,
When I don't make a sound.

You can't sense what I feel
When walking in the wood,
Or why, at all, I walk.
I wish you could.

You don't see the beauty
That burns my soul,
Or what I want, what I need
To make me feel whole.

You don't see the light
That fills this place,
Or the sweet scented flowers
That at your feet, grace.

You wont ever look with these eyes of mine,
That see this truth;
And for all that is written and drawn,
You are the living proof.

You wont warm to the touch
Of my two hands, you see.
I'll hold them out wide
And you'll never come to me.

Saturday, 2 June 2012

Angel Artist

A brook, a field,
Big rocks, and little stones,
Some sheep, and some trees.
The sweetest birdsong
Unto ears blessed;
From moors and seashore in the east,
To mountains and lakes in the west.

The beauty of a dream
Sits within my field of vision,
Burning like the sun.
She is the valley
And all sits within her creases,
Living like the green, and ceaseless

Valley grass; feeding, nourishing,
On which the newborn lambs
Rest their woollen heads;
Where we lay down
In the sun's golden strands:
One look, a brush of hands.

One look, a brush of hands,
And the wind whispers on,
I open my eyes, as if from sleep;
She was just a dream
And though for her I search
She is gone.

The artist of the valley,
Painting the grass so green,
Playing those sweet songs for me;
I search your hips and arch of your brow,
To paint you a smile
To match the smile you give me.