Love.

Injection with an itching infliction

an enigma that some understand as fiction

a chemical imbalance for lustful friction

but riddle me this, how do we have such diction

for a meaningless word that offers such varied depictions

a perfect artistical muse for those that win and for those that lose

something to obtain and never use within its addicting affliction

for what wrought wars as wrong and inspired a crucifixion

a synonym of an antonym without contradiction

for what I believe as a deity that holds us all without restrictions.  

Ring around the roses a pocket full of doses

ashes to ashes we all, fall, in.

Life beyond unspoken death.

 

Passing time, everything's fine

until the climb into eternal shine

when love reclines into the remind

of ones spiritual life and their lessons that guide

for livings do try beyond the physical byes 

as their left behind signs, read uniquely mine

for what is grief if not love re-signed upon our soulful dotted lines

with insightful memories encased, of their life refined 

and although the pain never feels right, we sleep with hope that we never fall blind.

Our reflection.

The streets are alive with the cadence of rain 

and bare feet with memories of lost shoes walking in pain

beating to a hearts rhythm of missing love that carries the blame

searching to feel them again

through the looking glass of our windowpanes 

we look without seeing the hundreds of names 

that pass by with no glory or fame 

just yet another day we think, here we go again.

Mr dry eyes.

Sleep evades of awoken thoughts that cascade

like rain in the gutter flooding the drains

of disdain for who's lain with a still active brain

in remains maimed of insane gains

asked to explain pain as the thoughts wane

behind an automatic smile framed so they can't obtain the grain

the truth famed in its crowned reign of a mind stained

like they can help, the vain train thinks it's only sane

for the truth tracks, for it's laid plain 

only the mouth abstains from the fear its tame.

Hopes horizon.

No speak 

slow feet 

shallow peak

a hollow reach

of times breach

for eyes seek

beyond presents bleak

till eyes meet

in togethers heat

but the future fragments of days reaped

with no breath to keep just faiths leap

until heavens peaks are rendered puddles deep

for who could awake in a dream only meant for sleep.

Circus life.

Death comes with unsweetened life

from salted eyes of a catered demise

a smiling guise amidst flatlining lies

from a cheerful decline unto a lonely prize

of trapeze of pleased artists, smugly refined

and bouncing acrobats that climb heights that boggle the mind

as I stood amidst exploding mines that were never mine

but were laughingly assigned from the muted mimes

that belly hold a chuckle with finger pointing signs 

to guide the wandering eyes to where the humours enticed

to where a smile died within a see through box, unable to hide

as they pull the rope where the other end was chokingly tied 

around the jugular, of a life denied

a killer joke, is the ringmasters pride

as the acts take their bows to end the night

as the juggler swings in front an audience of desensitised sights. 

Who could've guessed what smiles could hide.

Counted blessings.

Counted blessings 

of our lives and heated lessons

counted blessings

through our hated, though, love filled transgressions

why did we not count our blessings

when the number meant more then this feeble confession

to whom we now bless with returned love 

and unanswered questions

can we still talk or silently walk together

if a number matters nought, how about a heartfelt letter

so we don't have to feel so alone, upon another lifelong endeavour.

Hematite.

Rust to dust from upon metal chains

of a blooded palette of centuries claimed 

rattle an echo of unholy remains

accompanied by a cascading roar of living disdain

for all hearts beat still amongst the shadows shade

as from the path many have swayed 

towards the lure of temptations gain

an eternal debt that must be paid

for the night is long, like ghostly pain.

Aching hearts

born of absent crying of blessings scorned  

free also of sin, as God and Devil mourn

but love still adorns upon life torn

like a rose atop thorns as the sun rises upon hollow dawns

aching hearts worn

warn against what was sworn

so bless the unseen with more then

what we understand as serene

Echoes in the dark.

 Pushing through, dark room

a given clue, darkness glooms

a bedridden muse, that night consumes

a light hearted smile is but a ruse

of a figure that the mind subdues 

for who's that, that entices doom

a silhouette dressed, in blackened hues

standing in the corner, of my tomb 

for the night is young, echoing the life that I lose

midnight struck the hour that this mortal paid his dues

pushing through, the darkened room☺

Giving singles a bad name.

 To know them more then they know themselves 

a grievous act of manipulators tired of being left on the shelf

watching others trading cards, well holding the cards they've been dealt

because of their demeaning evaluation their left only caressing the tabled felt.

No questions to learn distracting facts leaves just jealous acts 

to impact what's intact with their absence from the pack

"how powerful are the ones that cause cracks" 

no addition just subtractions is but an equation that leaves the equals trapped

a lone artist that can only dabble in the abstract for nothings exact

no specific hands to play for they feel the deck's stacked

and a friendly game turns to a monetised transaction their ready to retract

oh how I loath to interact within continuous social debates of ignorant counterattacks 

that leave me gobsmacked at the smiling deaf that only exist as a patience test

that inevitably ends with me signing the stress of two fingers split as I eventually quit 

believe what they will, and say what they may say just as long as I'm far away 

for I don't want to be the main character in their narration of whatever they find fascinating

as nothings more sating to them as baiting or rutting the mating and to me either is just aggravating.

Own being alone not as a loan from others 

there's a reason for it that's known or yet to discover

it's never to act against lovers

for that's when the alone, justly suffer.

Talk.

 How times have changed of where opinionated blame

justify red rain within eyes of the children that remain

of lines erased in a world that'll never be the same

a grain of truth disdained within malnourished pain

the only hate speech is hate to speak. Papers left plain

of anything but the signature of a name

lost is the humane when there's no will to obtain

our perpetual soul, that's somehow misplaced in our earthly reign 

it's so sad of what "Power to the people" became.

May the bread stay broken, untaken

of fences mended among the splintered forsaken

and let these bloodied thorns be a symbolic token of peace awoken.

Bang goes the drum amidst a choir soft-spoken

let the beauty tame the beasts of what we left wide-open.

 

Yearning.

 No worth since birth

from outside learned

way beyond or below concern

oh, how the young did yearn

for all but the stern

oh, how the young did yearn

to be old with wisdom earned

but the old wish dominates the urn

within atmospheric burns

how long left, becomes the only question 

with no rights to turn.

Slammed doors in place of a child's face

commonplace is an adults disgrace

that grew the jealousy that others felt safe

oh, how the young did yearn for even a trace

of love and trust for, of the human race 

without the need for the chase

with age comes wisdom that the young's replaced

with memories encased of how we died with haste

oh, how the old do yearn, for even a taste of what we waste.

 

Green green grass called home.

Green green grass of home

was a greenhouse that I sold

for sake of broken glass and stones that stayed whole

a pebbled path to what was lost, turned into a main road

for fast cars with high beams that highlight the cold

so huddle for warmth to find only me I could hold

with clouded skies that gift the rain to feel less alone

and a lullaby like thunder to soothe the mind of its woes

to wake to tomorrow and see what I'm told

for one day it will be a garden to rest my weary soul

with birds and trees, bees and flowers and honey like gold

in my damp and loud, green green grass of home.

The fascination of interpretation.

Anger forged poetical forms of flipping the bird 

a smith that uses hot-tempered words

that says fuck the crows that attack those unheard

that don't follow the crow'ded herds

the dead feasters, that passed away anything of self to learn

no soul to urn, nothing earned, as body's burned.

The death of free speech often comes from the meek

as they care more about their reps, as their obviously feeling weak

for God doesn't fear the Devil or his heat

he gave us freewill to choose to where we retreat

but how can we choose a door when the halls are just walls 

covered with concrete with blankets on the floor for the poor

while they enlarge their spreadsheets, that hide behind law

for how can we beat the odds when we can't even break even 

then turn around and bitch slap Oliver for asking for more

gruel from the cruel  that continues to play with war

a deathly reward to silence the bored 

that voice that the game of life is more then we can afford

how can we be right when we can't write what's freely abhorred

or adored, for every positive has a negative and every negative has a cause

for righteous applause, for who knows what the future has in store

or who will end up wielding the molten words poured into swords 

for interpretation is liberation a freedom to be explored

not something torn by the scorned

that saw what they had a right to see but not complete to see

completely a deadly drawn thorn 

for it's just interpretation, artistically born.