Resolve

What a day it was
A killing breeze reigned
Across frozen waters and lakes
A high moon in a cancer ridden sky

The sun hid in dark alcoves
Caves and the wanderers of the wastelands
Covered in coveted lies
Truths and unknown impossibilities

The septum of irreverence
The eye in the midst of it all
An omnipotent god of nothing
An impotent snail in a water trough
Climbing up the sides
A trail of desolation
Smoke in the hives and honey
Stolen by kings and queens

Sweet ignorance where art thou
Awareness kills the element of surprise
Joy escapes the violence
A butterfly in a wartorn hellscape

The end of it all
As sleep succumbs to existence

Orion Still Calls Me

It’s been years since I last saw the sea.
I can still hear the waves,
And feel the wind on my skin.
Oh, it’s a sin, a wrong,
But the waters still call my name.
I still listen and look to the stars,
As if seeing that constellation
Will be any consolation
For the absence of my home.

Blue Skies, Blue Goodbyes

Clothes on a different skin,
Rippling in the wind
Blasting from all directions
As I look on and watch
From the clouds
And I can see the crowds
Down below on the ground
But they are so far away.
So far away that I don’t see one familiar face,
Or a point of recognition
To ground me, as

I’m floating on the winds
Before crashing down on the waves
And there I float – there I go –
A speck of white in the big blue.

Painted Snow

Five red trails
In the white snow
On the mountain.

The signs of the predator,
That steals their innocence
And leaves them broken.

Those that wander off the path
Are set alight with his eternal flame,
So they may be the beacons of shame.

Oh, but he is so beautiful,
With his smooth and clean skin,
There is not a single sin on him.

Although, if you could see his soul
You would know –
He is the one that paints the snow.

Staring Stars

They wept for hours on end,
In a storm of despair
And left their mark
On the windows of this room.

Now, the sun shines so bright
Reflecting in each eye –
A thousand stars
In a transparent sky.

All the marks and eyes,
Look into the windows to my soul
Which bears its own marks
And scars, from trails of tears

After years of erosion.
Now, however, there is only silence
Before the storm, and I
Can only watch.

Forgotten Baggage

With tears in his eyes
He stared out of the train window
At a world that passed him by
Ever so quickly.

He looked, and saw
The trees falling,
The grasses wither,
And the birds falling

So deeply in love
As they fly in pairs
Through the trees
And build their nests

So they may settle
In a home in the shade,
High in the green trees,
Away from all harm

Before they too, leave
For a better place
Where they will find their warmth
And final resting place.

The sun dried his tears
And a smile slowly spread across his face
As he turned into a bird
And flew to the horizon.

Buckets and Toast

I threw up a few times this morning. I stared blankly at the chunks of my peanut butter toast that floated in the blue bucket I was given by my mum, alongside the palpable disappointment.
Briefly I remembered the events from the night before: the sound of laughter, a full glass, an empty glass, dry heaving, my friend’s dinner in a black bucket next to his bed. After we put him to bed, I was walked to the station by two people I barely knew a few hours before, but after bonding over buckets it felt as natural as toast.
These sort of nights are not what I imagined when I was younger, and thought about how it would be to be all ‘grown up.’ I wanted to be a firefighter – but not just any firefighter, I wanted to be a firefighter with a hat.
Now, however, it seems as if the only thing I am capable of effectively extinguishing are my hopes and dreams. Every glass of that tempting, pain-killing poison, every night awake till 3am to escape responsibility, or to feel like I am for a brief moment in control of my life and I can do what I want. It all adds to the increasingly extinguished dream life I once wished for.
All this may sound rather bleak, but it is in those worst moments that there is usually a sliver of motivation again. Motivation that is resuscitated by feeling so close to death. Gone are the days of firefighter dreams, but at least there is hope.
Though I must say, the hope comes at the strangest moments. In this case, I was staring at my measly breakfast floating in my bile, in a blue bucket. I took a deep breath, and stood up. It was a bit too much to ask, but after one more heave I was ready to not just let my life be buckets and toast.