I told you

Did I tell you
that you struck gold
holding on to the sun
while you played the drums
to Buckley and Keane
the former having died
in a river not far from here?

Did I tell you
that trees speak
in the wind as they
creak and hush
in the lights of suns and moons
almost silent, unnerving
crying for your hands
to hold them for now and ever?

Did I tell you
someone's waiting
under the blue moon
for you to come
and place a caring hand
on their heart
and tell them
that you'll be there?

I think I've told you
all of this
by the picket fence
all those years ago.
You never came
when blood ran
and when you realise
and you fall on silent words
suddenly sullen
suddenly speechless.

Line-crossing

There's a point where lines no longer cross...and perhaps never will again. Let bygones be bygones, you know? It all started on a leaves-littered pavement and it ended in the stifling heat of  summer, on the same pavement. That was the point the lines crossed for the last time and then left for better things in the not-so distant future.

The journey beyond the crossing point was surreal - there was no direction or guidance. Not any more. And the prospect of moving away left a deep sense of loss. Eyes will no longer meet, paths will no longer cross, words will be left unheard and dead in the wake of the next autumn. But now on for more journeys beyond the crossing point, beyond autumn's anniversary and winter's cold - what's left is spring and summer. But who's to say it'll be like the last?

Those lines may no longer cross, but there will be more lines to come.

Leaving on a Train

It's like losing you again.
The platforms have never been so cold
in spring where April showers rain down.

Tar Roads

I like to think that there's still a child out there - the one who was always playing on the roads and getting her dress torn on the hedges on either side. She would play on the tar which burnt on hot days but kept her warm on cold nights. It was home, almost, and it told her where to go. It was paved for her, just for her...to follow and guard her from going astray into the hedges. Eventually, that road would end at a dessert, dotted with hedges, some with snakes hiding behind them. And so she was told to go wherever she liked.

I like to think there's still a child out there - or rather, I like to think there's a road out there for the child.

By and Like

It's like it's being relived
under deathly sights
of non-company
and tragic loss...

...what am I talking about?
My mind's running away with me
into a sunset
dead by night
followed by dawn
and down by dusk
forgotten by the next
second? Hour?
Week? Month? I
don't know...

...you've followed me from death
up to resurrection
and to the heavens
I do not believe in -
they're all lies
like you and because they are
they deserve life not,
like the sun that's set
like the devil that's dead.

Your Eyes Open

There's something about...
...this library...

It isn't silent - not at all...in fact, there's a heavy bustle of bewildered students shuffling up down the rows of computers. No one's completely silent - the boy at the end of one row is munching on crisps, the girl next to me is on her mobile and I'm, well, tapping my feet to the beats of Keane's "Your Eyes Open".

It's a lonely road that you have chosen...

I guess that's what's weird about this library - you're surrounded by people and even if you're absorbed in your work you are constantly reminded by the occasional clinks of pens and the constant white-noise of muffled voices. Nowhere's silent here.

It's a lonely place that you have run to...

Despite the people around you, you still feel lonely. Actually, it feels even lonelier than being on your own in your darkened box room. It could be because you're forced to sit at your seat and focus on your assignment. But it might also be the fact that, despite all the people who were in the library with you, not a single one of them is a familiar face - everyone's a stranger, nobody's a friend - and the shoulder you once could lean on, is nothing but a desire which floats aimlessly at the back of your mind. Now, all you have in the forefront is a computer screen which shines eerily in the darkened library as night approaches and everyone goes home.

Till the moment your eyes open and you know...

And suddenly, you realise that you're truly alone...

Trees Overhead

They're tall,
aren't they? Like ethereal beings
showering you with red, yellow
and gold. It's like
a dream which never ends -
their height, stature
grandiosity
leaves us in awe
wishing we could be like them;
but, alas, we're small
and weak, and
undermined
like the children we are
and we become manic in
depression to make us wish
we could be the one
showering others with
red, yellow and gold

I didn't see you today

I didn't get to see you today;
I missed you in the corridors
and on the pavement
where we once met under
autumn trees. The sun was gold
and old and beautiful, throwing
a blanket of calm
over what was to be chaos
which would only quieten
under suppressed anger
and sadness whilst
I walked down empty
dreaded corridors I knew
all to well, is where you dwell
and so I ducked out of sight
of the familiar shuffle
and hoped not to be seen.

Maybe that's why I didn't see you
today in the corridors
or on the pavement
where we once met because
the trees were now in winter
and the sun was dampened
and dead, like the musings
of this lost child
who lost at the game and is
at a loss for words.

To Those We Lost

In time there were those to be lost
to time and space
and memories which vanish
into the thin air of mind
and then there were those
to be remembered
at the back of the mind
who reserve themselves
a seat behind the mind's eye
but are not any more
than your own memory
of the real one
which once existed
before your very eyes
but now do not and only
exist in the horizon,
out of sight.

Tides die slow

Children speak like ghosts,
their words soft and subtle
under sheets and covers
where feverish hands play host.