Sunday, 26 April 2015

Written Off

The clouds are closing in
like terrible teeth from the jaws of the mountain,
clenching down onto the dour day.
A thousand little footsteps patter through the tiles
unsure of their direction,
fading away into those lowly confines
that we reserve for everything that has served its use;
buried in the ground.

In Your Curls

The shore beckons, 
waves hurl their shells 
empty, they leave impermanent prints 
before being wiped by the pull
and the push of rising waters.


A petal tumbles through the air
though, slowly, not quickly
as if suspended from somewhere.
Its course confusing but destination determined;
so easy to see, yet hard to explain
like the stone to which it travels
to join the rest; dying, darkening, dead.

Tension on Twelve

The doors kissed to mark the start
of another trip to the ground floor.
Soft jazz battles with the burlap silence 
of a man and woman alone together.
Thoughts stay home to hum, tap, and sigh
at the sight of another missed opportunity.

First Date

I squeezed conversation out
like near empty toothpaste;
coarse, uneven, and not enough.

Her ice was melting fast,
and I was the empty glass
as we both sipped and stared.