To the Friend whose Voice I can still remember.

On a page we wrote
about how we'd grow
and age into death
and how we'd learn
and love with others
we cherish.

But how did you go
before you could grow
and while you were still
learning and loving?
How did you disappear
so suddenly
in a flash
of headlights
so quickly
we didn't see-
you didn't see...

On a page we wrote
about how we'd grow
and age into death
but now it seems
you've skipped the
chapters between birth
and death, leaving us all behind
gaping, wondering,
in shock and sadness
wishing you were still here
to finish the book
you'd barely begun.

Why is there No Sky?

Why is there no sky?

Drums tease under deep muttering,
walls stained red with spotlights.
Only the smell of singed cigarettes
dotting the room
denoting cancer-ridden lungs
burnt and tarred, thick like
toffee - stuck, chewed,
hard like shingles
on the beach of Brighton
where the pier gave way
to a view of the sky
which we could never reach.

Why is there no sky?
I thought they were the limits
but yet we can't touch it
only see it and assume it's there.
But then carried away by
the sound of drums, you drift
like the acrid smoke you smell
and forget you are there
only to find the higher you go
the closer you are
to feeling it.

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.