"The echo of lost moments"

It was the start of a gentle winters day when I felt the first glimmerings of a forgotten sunshine swell inside of me...My mind; caressed by the smooth yet sultry voice of Diana Krall uplifted, releasing its pressure like that of a French press...I was almost blue. I almost saw the things that your eyes once promised and flirting with this disaster became me. I met you on the road last night, you were calm. You were done. I remember the first of those long nights, brief in their entirety, endless in their memory. There is no easy way to cry.

Like those symbolic cigarette butts and flying traces of ash I try to reach out and hold on to the dust and it vanishes into a grey smear that says far too much...yet means far too little.

I cradled the silence like a wounded child and rocked in my whirlpool of inertia. With quivering lips I parted the sticky web of disintegration with a sliver of smoke that teased me with effortless curls..resembling the journey I longed to take.

Golden sands brushed against my cheek as I embraced the kiss of the wave that rushed to greet me, and as the water consumed my every breath I shut my eyes and allowed the flesh of silence to rip apart and resonate with feeling.

Somewhere in the distance, I could hear myself screaming.

"Shantaram"

"To know the truth, all you have to do is close your eyes. We can know God for example, and we can know sadness. We can know dreams and we can know love. But none of these are real in our usual sense of things that exist in the world and seem real. We cannot weigh them, or measure their length or find their basic parts in at atom smasher, which is why...they're possible."

For you, Signore.

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,

When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's full decay;

'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,

But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness,

Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess:

The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain

The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;

It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;

That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,

And tho' the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.

Tho' wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,

Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;

'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath,

All green and wildly fresh without but worn and grey beneath.

Oh could I feel as I have felt, - or be what I have been,

Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanished scene:

As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,

So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me.

(Lord Byron)

"My perambulation.."

Yet nothing can to nothing fall, Nor any place be empty quite, Therefore I think my breast hath all, Those pieces still, though they be not unite...

So let us melt, and make no noise, No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move; 'Twere profanation of our joys, To tell the laity our love...

My sweet nothing...How shall I suffer thy loss? Thy continuous proliferation fills my days until I throb, with numbness still, I lost my voice, my heart, my quill. Teach me how to kill the time and I will kill thee through my ebbing hours, bury my thoughts, drink the draught of amnesia sweet, as I forget how to love, I may forget how to weep.

I brave the desert to earn my keep, caught in an hourglass, memories at my feet, teach me to tread softly past thy bower, teach me to live past this hour.

"One week left."

I'm shit scared. There's no elegance in that, nothing poetic or moving that can be written to describe it, nothing. Yes I miss you, yes I care so much sometimes it contricts around my throat like a silken scarf that is bound too tightly, yes I cannot breathe with ease. I cannot stay and it burns my eyes and my inverted tears drop into a sunken cavity pulsing with the ache of my loss. I lost my ideal, somewhere out there between this land and the next, over those ebbing waters I kissed my frog prince goodbye and lost my sweet virginity to the needle of painful cynicism. It coats the words in my mouth with a metallic web until they harden and drop out before me like blobs of cold steel. The trouble with living with metal is the chill that it fills you with at the onset of every embrace, every moment.

I cannot go gently into this good night, I cannot cast my heart aside for it continues to rage...rage against the dying of the light.

"And in that sleep what thoughts may come..."

It left me. Natures balm left me. And I was breathing, shallow and quick, and like flashes of blue glass I had visions that outlived the haunting passage of that night. That fearful night.

I will always love you. Always.

The person that lives behind those blue eyes is someone who I am truly fortunate to have been able to meet. I am fortunate to have been given the opportunity to love you for the journey has been surreal.

These wings did not fall to my side when I passed your window, my love.

This night, as I kneel here on this hard surface, I am thanking God with tears for bringing you into my life and most of all...

I want to thank you for loving me in return. Thank you for making me who I am.
Thank you for letting me into your heart. Thank you for being yourself.

I will always remember you with love...and I need you to know that...I need you to know that...before these eyes flicker shut...

Before my heart can beat again.

untitled...

It’s almost like those poems and songs. The ones that blow your mind until you realise that they're all untitled.
What can one make of this blunt honesty? This obvious disintegration? The violent withering and towering heights?
Sometimes one cannot help but wonder what the hell we are all fighting for, and what will come at the end of it.

There are those moments which, although untitled, can mean the world to you...lazy sunshine and rolling hills...yet there are the others which, under the same name, thrash and kick out against every core of your being until you lie, exhausted, in an unattractive bundle on a cold tiled floor.

Yes I felt those knives you pushed into me, I felt them then and I feel them now, I feel them twist and burn as my body quivers with charged emotions. I feel everything and I long for numbness, I long to be free of your treacherous caress. I long to be free of your lies.

You plan my future and like a wild animal hurled into a cage I cry out in desperation and claw at the steel bars.

You stroke me in my cage. You stroke me until my eyelids droop and my voice fades.

I refuse to be untitled.