Guardian

Was there beauty in the words she whispered
Close against your ear?

Because I thought I saw you cower,
Sink down to shredded knees
And weep as innocence was lost.

My mistake;
She could never be
anything other than an angel watching over you.

Bonded, bound, broken

We are made up of layers
like over the centuries
we
have been bonded together to be
made strong.




A mass
of impenetrable armour




worn.




Worn out under the gaze of
traitors in our midst.




Now my layers are nothing but
translucent
a covering of tissue paper strung out
against her wind.

feeding time at the asylum

I have fed you pain and lies
Twisting words
Thoughts
Deeds
Blending them into mush
Before sieving them through your soul
To watch as they bled between veins
Coursing
Consuming
A witness for all that you lack.

Hush-hush

I say nothing,
Like we could forget.

Then amidst your call
You tell me you haven’t;
I will not be forgotten.

But I want you to Mum.

I want to edge out,

I want to walk the line
Until the day it runs out
(Or becomes so blurred against life
the two become indistinguishable.)

To be the shadow in the corner,
Waiting.

To seep quietly out through my veins

And if I fail at that
To drag from the depths of self
A world where there is no place for me.

I want to do all that in silence.

A year goes by...

I haven’t gotten over it
Nor come to terms
Or found that
Time heals all wounds,
We miss you the same
As we did
At the start,
But life has plans,
Systems in place
To get you through those
Hard days
And you find that the ache
Which clung to your bones
So wantonly
Has moved,
Guided to it’s final
Resting place.
And it hasn’t shrunk,
Or lost it’s gravity,
You have expanded
To hold it.
Tender round the edges
we accept the pain
Because it is part of
What is left of you.
But not everything.

Stitch Unpicker

Fraying

and I can't seem to stop

and the words I want to come
fail

unravelling

and still I smile

and live with "I am fine"

and this is too hard

From quiet beginnings

Barefoot
Underneath his feet
An earth which has
Bore down
Upon his unbridled soul
And carved out it’s name
Into the hollows
Of night
Till he was
Brought to his knees
By a ghost of the present
A scrabble in the dirt
Until he feels the grains
Of passing time etched
In his faltering hands
The place marked by
Nothing more than
Salt and water
Before that too fades away
And his feet are
Unsheathed
Like they are waiting
To be washed
By a greater being
Where then in the eyes of the world
Will he truly be equal
Not barefoot
Or humble.