Petal Kiss Mushroom


A little pale petal falls from an open sky,

Slow in motion twisting through nothing,

Wantonly un-phased it seems to fly,

In its own way without fronting,

Downwards tempting in a mesmerising wobble,

So perfect in its feeling that only it knows well,

That just maybe there is nothing that’s least probable,

As certain blissful tales will surely tell,

Eyes with a deep sparkle moving away from the stars,

Not worried about a ground that has now turned to ashes,

A great expanse famished with its own emptiness so vast,

From where a dreamy hooded mushroom blooms with a passion,

A stunted silhouette of a figure that barely knows any horizon,

Held by stubby roots that form faint footprints on the surface,

Forever waiting saluting dark fantasy with all its surprises,

All it has is a beating heart that only knows noble service,

Hooded head always bent skywards,

Wondering what might just one day fall,

A single drop of rain water shaped like a diamond,

Or something else altogether enchanting with a name you cannot call,

Perhaps even a pale petal that resembles a frozen tear drop,

Whirling in its own sadness menacingly enticing,

Like a free falling ballerina with arms held aloft,

Tragically smiling while death defying,

A catastrophic meeting surely awaits them both,

Two forces with opposing intentions fated in this,

It will take just a single moment for them to make an unspoken oath,

And splash into each other’s lives with a sudden kiss…



Stolen Pieces

Stolen pieces of my life follow a thief somewhere out there,

Rubies of a bright shimmering light that only I could really see,

Taken silently while nobody watched, cared or expected,

Somehow though a menacing presence came for a while,

Into my space, into my hopes and dreams and did as they pleased,

Now they are gone and there isn’t even a trace,

Just that missing space,

Where the pieces sat awkwardly,

But tenderly in the way that I chose,

My life, my way, my space,

Now there are just gaping holes,

Where my clutching fingers try hold on,

Try understand, try forgive and to put things as they were,

But gone is gone and this feeling could make a very bad song,

That only I would hear, listen to in the stillness of the moment,

The moments seem plenty now that the thief has done their deed,

Plenty, with not much difference as the questions sprout out of the dust,

Hopelessly hopeful questions that answer themselves in the asking,

But the meaning is ignored for I am never ready, not for this,

Not ever…