A Post

Mist

I descended into a mist

and in the midst of it was you.

I descended into a mist

in your eyes, a smokey blue.

I descended into a mist

but I could not see it through.

I descended into a mist

and in the midst of it was you.

Autumn Leaves

Your auburn leaves rusted their coarse crust

onto the cobbles of my drive,

and I've been craving your metallic taste to touch my tongue,

just as the sun touches those leaves still standing,

and pierces scattered rays through,

like searchlights for those leaves once lost,

until the golden glow, with each glance upwards,

dissipates into darkness

and the premature dusk calls of the search for the night.

Spring Leaves

Leafs bleeding dew as the rays pour from the horizon

nature with no disguise on.

Earth in equilibrium,

towering trees,

in the furthest reach of the eye

A flightless kite awaits the night.

Silence is golden,

ans so is the sky.

Alone in Kyoto

I saw the city pavement

— a whirl of activity

I saw the glamour and movement

— a swirl of anonymity 

Sharp faces, sharp clothes.

Bright streets, dark woe.

Autumn's Nostalgia

The unmistakable nostalgia of September is upon us,
the hot breeze s
                            w                 through the air,
                               e           s                              caressing magnolia petals
                                  e    p                                                                               as it dances through 

the neighbouring woods.

The only noises that penetrate the whirling air are birds singing,

leaves brushing each other, and the rustling of my book pages

whilst the smell of distant floral laundry detergent percolates

through the thick and heavy summer air,

content with imitating their natural counterparts.

First Drops

The air is filled with water 

and the stalks are rustling dry

with the thunder speaking softly

in a corner of the sky

and the whirl and chase of leaves and chestnuts

pursuing down the lane

and the chill to raise your grumbles

with the first dark drops of rain...

Wasted

I have committed the worst of sins

one can commit. I have not been

Happy. Let the glaciers of oblivion

take and engulf me, mercilessly.

I applied my mind to the symmetric

arguments of art, its web of trivia,

when my parents bore me for

a much grander purpose in this

Life. It never leaves me. Always at my side,

that shadow of a melancholy man.

Rooted

The crowds that linger in desolate spaces are bound by nothing,

and yet are as rooted as the trees that whisper in autumn.

The merciless soil grants no escape to those without a sense of self,

They construct cells to hold the sacred and unwilling,

Square and rectangular blocks housing all their frivolities.

Burdened by burdens masquerading as necessary joys.

Still

People are a distraction

both from ennui

and motivation

which is why

I feel so distracted

from the motivation

of a useful attraction.

Inhaling Summer

A half-bloomed hydrangea 

swaying in the balmy air —

I close my eyes

and let the scent linger.

Dregs

You left this morning

a strand of hair, the door

half a cup of black coffee, on the floor

a note

singing nothing you hadn't sung before

already, as the pitch black of night simmered down

I was drinking up your dregs for more.

Clouds and Cliffs

A landscape of clouds and cliffs

lurid in luscious green,

and sandstone rolls and lifts

into the twisted perception of dream.

...

A                             r                               t

both compliments and compromises 

the condition of the human soul

——mine——

lies waiting for a muse to perfect it

and so too does my soul.

Lost Network

I like to wake
before the tinny jingle
of my phone's alarm,

when

I can get good and lost

in the vast countryside

where

it's like I'm the only human on earth,

but only as long as

the network signal is strong enough

that I can be assured my isolation

is a temporary fantasy.

Accounts

I've tried deleting your number out of my phone to convince myself that

I won't contact you again. And I don't, yet I still can't help but

scroll through your social media accounts,

[on which I have unfriended you and

erased every trace of our virtual contact

or sentimental photos, as though it would rid me

of what had occurred]

Yet I smile at some things you say

and at others get a little bewildered what I ever saw in you.

Still, the smallest mention of another loser's name

or any implied intimacies

and I still get a warm bubbling sensation in my stomach

and a tightness in my chest.

I probably don't care. 

I'm pretty sure

I don't care.

It's nothing.

Yonderly Shores

The susurrus brush of sinuous waves,

systatic with the siccaneous sand,

is soft in her sun-clad syzygy

guided by the virason's weathered hand.

The fusillade of over-turned fossils

foraminate the fool's merry frescade—

a farraginous flânerie falls short

of foaming footprints he's now forced to wade.

And so the shore laps up the shingled kiss,

an insatiable disregard for man;

insidiating with the sea to spoil

his own lecanoscopic day-dreamed plan.

And so the shore stops his saccharine kiss,

the velleites of man in ignorant bliss.

Share a Life with...

I've been looking for someone to complete me,

but the search is like

hunting for a Coca-Cola bottle

with my name on,

and finding any name but mine,

or with a different spelling variation.

My unloveable heart matches

the obscurity of letters,

but then again I suppose

love is just a intelligently marketed drink

that I have no real desire for

when its flavours fizz out

long before sell-by date.

Train Carriage Confessions

I find it no coincidence that you seat yourself here,

beside me,

when there are empty rows available.

Equally apparent, is that I am caught by the same instinctive attraction—

my attentive gaze greeting your curious glance

towards my pen

then

into my eyes.

Neither of us, with our timid temperaments,

have the intrepidity to initiate a decisive action of discourse, and so

I sit here

half-wishing your peregrine eyes

would pass over my obstructive shoulder

and read these confessions,

knowing them to be as true

as the light I can perceive inside of you.

Silence and Sirens

There's little difference in the susurrus spoken sound

of 'silence' and 'sirens'

yet within their substance

is considerable distance

That is how I feel

about the sigh of you and I.

I've spent an ephemeral eternity

trying to establish

which of us, despite apparent semblance,

is guilty of the din.

I've started to surmise that it is me—

the bashful banshee.