her warm-snuffled hair
curls under cotton covers
as her flurries drowse
in the witching hours
outside her room’s redolence
winds carry black lungs
but she sleeps ensconced
a delicate lassitude
succouring neglect
Writer
her warm-snuffled hair
curls under cotton covers
as her flurries drowse
in the witching hours
outside her room’s redolence
winds carry black lungs
but she sleeps ensconced
a delicate lassitude
succouring neglect
pompous words echo
in the encroaching darkness
and fade into hush
so we scour the feed
with predatory stillness
in aching silence
flickering fingers
tell little of the dangers
and unknown horror
sing malevolent
shadow words a melody
to our crooked minds
dust motes float upward
through heavenly lucid rays
and our eyes follow
in the broiling dark
we see our souls reflected
a lightless mirror
the slow burn whispers
hide your heart-song in the embers
I relight the match
arid sound of wind
the flickering monochrome
Plato’s long shadow
early morning light
wake on warm tarmacadam
exhilaration
yews overhanging
treading bitter compressed chalk
toes sliding on grime
and the sun continues
sinking through a carmine end
to a silent dearth
I can see the lights
velux-framed and softly-dimmed
and inside she waits
spin in wild extremes
reversing pathetic cures
remembering youth
but our common sense
is an aging monolith
a rusted anchor
so we learn to dwell
in a perfect fallacy
a chintz fantasy
he is always there
my whispering companion
thriving on my slide
arresting myself
on tired whitened fingertips
I pause and breathe out
but familiar tones
imperceptible talons
call me out and down
pressing my shoulder
her hands cover my eyes
words hushed by my ear
yet this blind embrace
binds me, turning sour and curdles
bile and salt-sweat skin
white flecks of ash catch
the soot from a thousand fires
smoke hiding my tears
a phone is ringing
chirping in the empty rooms
nobody can hear
streetlight slices rust
cutting shadows from the air
picking motes and smoke
until headlights switch
spotlighting the moving shades
and waking the dawn
the words prepare us
a soft-scripted liturgy
to remove our guilt
the whispers linger
echoes scratching the render
scraping the brickwork
but the silence lasts
longer and still reaching out
blind groping fingers