Tag: melancholia

  • the hanging man

    it is passing strange
    how a turn of word
    tugs at puppet strings
    whereas an elegant mask
    might only hang

    it is always the
    whispered words
    with the most draw
    as we dance at
    the edge of a tether
    aching for more

  • night train

    scratches stand testament
    to an erosion of caring

    transients in many lives
    only too happy to cast scars
    before they hop aboard
    the next night train
    heading out towards the stars

  • break the wheel

    asking earth to embrace
    bone, blood and
    drink flesh to drunk

    give eyes blind to stone 
    to a cairn of song
    give all to ash and acorn

    break the wheel and
    scatter it all

  • All that remain

    There are times that there is only empty. You could not understand.

    Everything ash. Everything dust. You could not understand.

    I am weary of silence, but there is no mouth with which to speak to the missing ears which could never hear. You could not understand.

    Rivers run my blood in tears from void for eyes, screaming blind. You could not understand.

    This is a limbo, something you could never understand.

    Piercing pinions stretched for all the night. You could not understand.

    That I miss your lips and their wine… You could not understand.

    Ribbons are all that remain.

  • rocking again;

    unpluck the glass shards
    that dog these fingerbones
    let them crunch & grind

    all words fell deaf to ears
    all in the along, perhaps
    needles will let ears feel

    surrendering,
    i climb to wain slumbers
    giving over to rocking again

  • isle

    i become long
    under the night
    and my heart stutters
    with ache for a silent skiff
    ghosting through mists
    to take me to that
    forgotten place where
    blossoms forever fall

  • but for

    goodbye
    it could have been
    lovely, if only

    but for the fool

  • no such thing

    those lips still cut
    with every touch
    with every view, so
    tie me to the screen
    to bring them closer,
    still closer, to me

    there is no such
    thing, love
    there is only bruise
    a thumb pressed to
    heart-boxes caged
    within rows of ribs
    and vanities

    so give over blind
    a seer for sweet pain
    rending through
    to see so clear
    it hurts

  • atelier

    We held feather to flame and come out charred, there, in the underwood, the oaks rising sentinel high. The many mutter and shuffle, not wanting to be left behind. But the barrier is the bending of knee supplication, to both the underwood and also the trees.

    And stiff knees bend not.

    Though fevered and enflamed, I wish I could remain here kissing, improbable memories, unlikely times. We might talk to the old skull stone and antler, carving names with flint beyond the skin’s deep. We might slumber afterglow warm, sweat dripping chill on your side.

    This bone atelier, sanctuary and rain. Inkstained. I close blind eyes tight to stay.

  • surrender

    there was a used-to-matter
    and now a not-certain-it-does
    laid across existence-as-wraith
    as the haint at the bottom
    of the stairs and down the hall

    it could beautiful, one supposes
    if such a dream were real and
    i am dreaming of us dreaming
    of one of us drowning and
    one of us is just me just dreaming
    of slipping under the wave

    surrender comes easy with
    no ropes cast to the deep