my moon

you are the moon
casting bright shadows in my dreams
all the ringlets of your ecstasy
enchanting porcelain beams

wide eyed at the window
staring from the inside
i listen for the rising tides
to come eclipse this heart
who is basking in the memory

of golden days
dew soaked dawns
and smiles upon kisses
promises in tear
when i still had it so bad for you

but what will comfort me
when i find all our memories
are turned to dreams
like a quiet goodbye

the edge

"I have an idea" she said, 

"you can go for a walk,

 and when you come back..."

~

"I'll be gone."

long gone, lost in stranger arms

whilst you wander the withering

of our love's once lush leaves

and in the embers of calamity, 

my walk takes me past those things which test your sanity

vast valleys filled on the edge of immortality 

memories of she and i and her and you and me and we

then i walk over to the end,

and at the end there is the edge,

whose border traces along tomorrow's 

finely undetermined destiny

there i lay down and fall asleep and 

hope to dream 

to catch a glimpse and see

from beyond that line which while wide awake

guards against fools like me,

those who'd dream to take

when at last my eyes, relieved, reopen

i find myself deeply inside tomorrow, 

with the end and the edge far out of sight

all trace of you is gone

and so am i

loose

she is loose in a green dress for you
can't stop, won't stop, will never let the blows slow

daunting, her wild thrusts are taunting
the spirits from my bones, taking everything i've known

stones in the sea know the depths
and mountains can see the lengths

that a sorry heart must go
to find peace


It's cold tonight as the cold north wind blows through the crack in my window, each gust carrying my soul a little further. It's hard to stop shaking, when voices inside and out are deafening. And how uncanny the unwholesome hour seems to be. Especially in this state. I thought I'd escaped, but it's only seemed to have followed me here.

So it is, when the cream of your memories rise to the top.

When even yesterday turns into an illusion, what hope is there that the present, too, is not eternally ephemeral.