Cosmic Flicker

This single light strains to fill this room.
It reflects and refracts off the silk threads, 
weaving together shadows and shines
that may fill the gaps of heartstring walls.

The wax drips from this cup to fill another
that too will burn a flickering brightness
intended only for one room of valuable sight. 

This single light strains to fill this room. 
It dampens in flicker and dulls out in flame
with every patient, calming drop that drips.

The wax drips from other lights to fill this cup.
Connection forges a newly blossoming nova
that grins wide and reaches out to the universe.
This single light was made to light the cosmos.

For Gramps

Today there's a new bumble bee
hovering over the speckled daisies. 
Small wings play soft music to me
that sing the same words you did. 
Those songs still croon in the breeze
through the stripey bumble bee fuzz.

Tonight there's a new shining star
shimmering beside the smiling moon. 
It glistens brightly against the stillness
watching calmly over the world below. 
I swear that star has a laughing grin
from seeing the same pranks you pulled. 

Tomorrow there'll be something new
so familiar that it feels almost borrowed. 
The gentle reminder that you're near. 
You reflect in our features in the mirror; 
In our kindest deeds to our neighbour;
In the hearts that'll remember you forever. 

Do not think after midnight

I gave the voices your tongue to hear their words in the voice of another. How differently I hate myself when the recital of criticism takes on a separate tone. The ex-plosives are missed as your snipes detonate in an uglier timbre. The richness of that trill is taken as an ever renewing esteem tithe, gradually depreciating my self-belief’s valuations so the bare bones can be given back to the earth cost free. Would the words you made me delete have made any difference? They’ll greet me when I finally give into the bitterness and momentarily regret all I hadn’t the chance to regret before.

Evening Oil Smudge

Drops of boiled beeswax
poured into the lap of eventide
fixed up the familiar face

Soul syphoned as tax
with lips forever widely untied
yet draped in smatters of lace

Bright acrylic lacs
whispering old words that formed and dyed
a novel paint palate case

Dry anticlimax
from feeble watercolor tears cried
at night end's bitter disgrace

Broken into scraps
less than what it could and would provide
more than all it could erase

Better Free

Locked behind bones wrapped in brocade
an indelicate escape plea
screaming inward for a reply.
This bustle will surely outgrow
the short lived modesty debut.

One could claim you're on a crusade
offending nobles in a spree
until it's protests can outcry,
overpower, your own deep woe -
setting you down, trapping anew.

Perhaps you'll set to work, or trade
Or marry yourself a marquis.
Resolve your fate with one more lie:
he undressed you patiently slow
then treats you as more than a screw

In Old Age

Porcelain filled with lavender tea
sits delicately on the table.
The old doily cloth matches your dress,
were both inherited from mother?
Remember how she would laugh so loud?

Flower teased by a small bumble bee,
please ignore it if you are able
it will only sting if under stress.
Remember that advice from brother?
Bees have the temper of a storm cloud.

"I'm glad that we still have each other"
Oh how I wish you'd say this aloud

This Isn’t Home

Knotted tightly in my psyche is a feral call:
a plea to return to an unvisited place
where unfamiliar arms can bring rest.
 
Routine saps the life from my soul - 
within safety it writhes in silent agony
Lacking nourishment unknown - unnamed.
Hunger looks inward to survive famine. 
Ravenous claws stripping only prime cuts -
psychological filet, served bloody and rare. 

I will be the last to walk away from me. 
The world unrecognisably cold and damp
under the footsteps of a more fulfilling life

Darker Nights

I know this night, I know its call.
Agony wears a harpy's grin
to tempt the lungs to drown within.
The bedfellow of cortisol;
this life raft needs prescription scrawl
before we're buried in its skin.
I know this night.

A panic button protocol
shotgunned with cheap raspberry gin.
Hope: the very first deadly sin
that chokes us all against the wall
I know this night.

Marshmallow Tar

Death's kiss, 
with all of it's surgical precision, 
cannot wash away your scent. 
Sweet burnt marshmallow
pooled in the final sands of the hourglass - 
a tar to keep the coffin sealed.
Stale espresso left in the morning dew
whispers that it tastes the same - 
a brew far more bitter than the lonely truth.