You have stolen all of my seasons,
My summers, my autumns, my winters, my springs;
An unshakeable force born not out of nature’s palms,
But from the wild fires of the heart.
Betraying all sense and reason
Like a magician who deceives his audience with only sleight of hand.
Melting the ice from the bastille of winter’s long lived days,
Shining love’s light to spring like a painter’s canvass
Renewed by the illuminated birth of a new sun.
I am unravelled and undone at the seams
By the the majesty and glory of you.
I am in awe.
How is it that one can be both free and yet bound to another?
Love is now my only season and you its architect,
Who orbits grand spirals of my imagination
By manifesting the alchemy of my dreams without sleeping.
Let us steal the night away.
via Daily Prompt: Confess
There is a woman who stares out of windows.
Her frame frail, her hands withered,
She slowly traces the lines
Reflected in the distant misty meadow;
Determined to sketch out phantom figures
And etch them onto the glass.
Her lips mimic the shapes drawn by her fingers.
Words that are mimed but no voice to confess them.
Everyday she repeats this ritual
And everyday her confession sounds no syllable.
There was a woman who stared out of windows.
Her chair sits vacant – waiting patiently for the next individual.
It was on calm black waters I set my ship to sail,
Slicing through the midnight abyss
Where no compass could direct my course
And where true north could not be cyphered
From the celestial goodnight kiss.
All attention converged to the fractured opening
Like a beast whose slumber is disturbed from within his dwelling;
His eye-lids reveal an unknown darkness in his cunning,
Showing the universe is torn
And in its wake a new storm is forming.
Magic is a shamanistic rain dance
Heard on desert island disc albums
Found in our summer seasons.
Higher consciousness is vanity disguised
When proclaimed by celebrity gurus
Seeking engagement from public eyes.
Perfection is the ant-eye-climax
Seen in tv advertisements
For the female pursuit
To be younger than their waistlines.
I walk through a cobbled town
To hear the klaxon howl the echo.
Revealing relic remnants of the old Victorian philanthropy sound,
That gave rise to the ideals of social responsibility,
But now a hollow distant memory
Shackled by the irons of the privatised trickle down economy.
Cadbury’s workers’ village,
Scattered garden cities;
All once held the promise of a society
To encompass the poorer communities.
Now they lay waste to myth and urban legend
Cascading amidst a daydreamers vision;
A landslide of Utopian ideas
Found in alien derivative alternative dimensions.
27 years surfing rapid rapids declining local skylines
Of working class young adults.
Forced out of London’s
Mathematical formulaic enclosed price brackets.
Eclipsing our stars and the sun and renting out
Cardboard box rooms to gaze at the moon on pay per view.
Honest conversations with dishonest hands
Watch with itching fingers to pull socialist triggers,
That rough the winds to shake false foundations.
Inhibition takes flight and lands on the stage dressed in moonlight.
Place my heart to rest with the anarchists, bandits and thieves.
I remain pacified with a book of prose and verse instead –
These scriptures write better truth
Than the parliament of owls pecking at borderline, bottom-line threads.
Time is a deceiving song;
Manacled constructs that constrict the flow of the now.
I cannot perceive the past or future;
It is inconceivable when living moment to moment,
Hand to mouth,
On a knife’s edge;
My thoughts are consumed by an unceasing melody.
I live life like a musician, who composes a song which falls on deaf ears.
I write by the stream of consciousness
Like a bird who scours the heavens for food and shelter.
The power of my conviction,
My will to create shares the same forces
As the tides of the sea’s tempest.
I am an enclave of soul and rhythm.
My poetry is improvised jazz that stirs to orchestrate
Hidden universes residing in the cerebellum.
Aligning your spine and opening the third eye
To see what affronts your internal remedy.
I don’t know truth but I do know the art of lies.
I can dress a beautiful lie and sew golden laces
And fabricate fiction if that’s what you want to hear.
I cannot strip day to day truth; it remains hidden from view.
Time is a deceiving song,
But now is my gift to you.
Before I go and delve into the ocean
Of time lost and time forgotten
Sink into the unknown depths of unsound mind
Cast adrift in vague untamed commotion.
Before I go and wander
Through the twists and turns of lanes
Like veins of my aged hands-
A wild and organic maze-
Each boulder, each ridge, each line
Marks the lands of memory’s haze.
I gaze at this foreign landscape uncertain… dismayed.
Before I go against the desert storm
That disperses each grain of sand
Trespassing thought with unwavering command.
Lost in meandering internal discourse
My thoughts drive the insurgent waves;
A tsunami of scattered and convoluted connections.
Wide eyed at my unfamiliar surroundings:
Unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar boundaries.
Where am I? Who am I? That is the unrelenting question.
In my room I examine trinkets, pictures and books to reawaken
Perhaps this will rouse the promise of adventures once taken.
I hope for that one single revelation.
Before I go, scrutinise this frail faced canvas once more.
Does this worn portrait express my life’s score?
The passages of time imprint upon the surface
Marking days of raucous laughter
Days of frantic and wild resolve
Days of hardship and tales of woe.
Before I go
Know that I was
Know that I am
Remember this before I go.