No Feelings, Just Words

A cold lick on the back of the neck,

A stated intention, with intellectual invention,

Bold and slick with no lack of respect,

A fated relation, takes form through contemplation.

"These are my metal scars..."

With eyes that stab splattering hearts like art,

An imagination unbelievable, versed in the inconceivable,

The mind denies that it has shattering starts from the past,

An animation deceiving, the worst of its own thoughts unreadable.

"My wounds heal me..."

Flickering optimism faith’s wounded friend,

Peeks from a dark place, somewhere behind the stone face,

Tinkering solipsism in ways only brooders blend,

Bleak in a lost space, despair remains blind from old mistakes.

"These are the lenses of a hermit..."

Ideally unreal the dreams are the waking sorrow,

Dancing phantoms, to the music of flickering lanterns,

Appealing it seems judging by outcomes that follow,

Life as it happens, with all the promise of ugly looking handsome.

"My inside is a junkyard..."

Tampering with futures idle hands trip wires,

Unknowingly unhinging verity, questioning love’s brevity,

Dismantling excuses so that time itself misfires,

So slowly it tinges its own propensity, confusing longevity.

"My fingers ache to touch you..."

Forever now with all the charming tears this is how it has been,

Everything so ineffectually precarious, without a hint of the hilarious,

Whatever’s found disarming as it appears in every scene,

Always taking things so serious, the romantic Aquarius…

"I will always love you from afar..."

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Footless Boot

 

Legless footless boot discarded, without a care,

Like a bad memory from yesterday, just there, disregarded,

Forgotten by those who move on, unnoticed, not a blink, not a glare.

Who else would see you looking purposeless, what fool?

That would really try to understand your predicament, what simpleton?

Not even the one who wore you could be as silly as a mule, is it a rule?

That boots should have feet in them? is it for the barefoot to contemplate?

For the meaning is taken in steps, endless steps that have to concentrate,

Break the straps of boots, boots with feet that travel,

Maddening, as the tale of the feet in them unravel,

Heels crack, ankles snap, toes moan as steps cover the map,

None of it is exact, neither lie nor fact, just truth that admits it lacks,

The ability, the simplicity to explain why a boot must have a foot, why truth must be exact…

Heads Down

Heads looking down, bodies clenched and bent, shuffling through the rain,

Figures connecting the fragile lines of their existence on a rainy day,

Reality is misty and truth is cold at best,

When reflections briefly shimmer in the mud dragged with every step,

Thoughts flitter silently like moths in an abandoned building,

Deep inside, far away in a vacant space, inside every one of the children,

Taking the world in absently it seems, if one doesn’t understand,

The very nature of children and how from absolutely nothing they expand,

Like the tiny rolling particles that together make up the rain clouds,

That release a gentle flow, constant, unnoticed, a storm with no sound,

With the potential to change lives, change the very Earth,

And what it keeps inside, it’s ancient worth…

I keep my head up...

Ghosts In The Rain

I sit behind my perfect window and watch them, through the ghostly mist and leaking rain,

Trudging along as if to some silent drum, an empty symphony, they trudge along with no time to play,

Silhouetted caricatures against the endless grey of the horizon’s ceiling,

Some hold umbrellas some let the truth soak them to the bone in their search for meaning,

It is early morning, they are on their way to school, this is rural country,

How far must they walk, do they have any choices and who will teach them bluntly?

Bright lights of the future, weapons of silent destruction,

They march in unison oblivious to their parent’s assumptions,

About their role, about the goal,

About life.

To my right,

Through another less perfect window,

I see a flock of elderly people huddled together like lame pigeons in the cold,

Far from lame they chat away blithely in voices I cannot hear and will never understand completely,

They wait for services , services that should give them just a few more seconds, discretely,

They know something that not even the meddling rain can fathom, something about the ghosts of each of us,

In passing we pass through things that seem out of reach until we realise that they have strangled us,

Those things that distinguish raindrops from teardrops, those things that confuse the mind and heart,

They need healing from the children that take hastened steps sloshing through the mud,

With nothing but their monster  satchels full of books, empty lunch tins and un-fearful love,

Taught to them by those same elders wrapped in wet blankets, sitting,

While the children  march onwards with the rain hissing,

Insistent to the last dripping drop,

It cannot stop,

They cannot stop…