Never was it said; that you
should consider me your futures survival.
Welts in the wall
smiles lost, in the long, long grass.
Empty lone vigils, night ambushes –
now marinated in rancid breath.
You speak to me in black and white
outlining the last laugh of satire,
stippling its decoys –
surrounded by life’s once rainbow of colour.
A painted primitive illusion; for those
who still believe in fairy tales.

Apple blossom white, centre ices your life,
as year upon year you torch the melted candle.
A gathering of birthday’s, livings only proof:
that you still do exist!
Skylarks erupting upwards
open ever smaller cloudless windows, looking down
upon the self-possession of existing.
How loosely woven it has all become – this
the once binding fabric – of everyday happiness?
Lights of dappled shade –
penetrate to burn the now blemished skin.

Beat your pillow; for it will never fight you back.
Be glad at least that some triumphs –
still survive; however small the conquest may be.

Poppy May 29th 2013



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