Nine to Five


So poor is the man in his pointless toil,

For by standard virtuous he must be,

Never reaping the rewards from the soil,

In the darkness of this world’s horrid fee.

And should he be so inclined to wander,

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The moonless darkness of such desire,

Of silken petals caught in the briar,

So torn between the luscious and the tip,

Ink flows vermilion in a fatal sip.

Blushing layers of bestial suppression,

Falling into a cultish possession,

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Crimes of the mourning,

Fearing inevitable pity,

A tiresome burden

of weighted conscience,

Envying the infinite egotism

of the slain,

In dirt’s serenity

and the stillness of Earth,

Ne’er to rise again.

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One Night


Breathless and quaking like the crumbling moon,

Shining on the night and to we below,

Whispering the words we already know,

Reflected in the eyes where lovers swoon.

And let us catch her falling fragments,

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False Prophets


On the edge where shadows do meet the light,

Mesmerised as their dawn so releases,

Such a dazzling prism into our sight,

Trembling as silence shatters to pieces.

And the luminous threads so born do weave,

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Oh, hangman! Humble me with your knots,

Yet, no! Twine them from such fine silken threads,

My neck feels the need of such warming cots,

As this life and the next you do so wed.

Oh, hangman! Caress my soul with strong hands,

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How I am reflected in your black gaze!

I never wished to see my inner night,

The fading stars do have me in a haze,

My entirety pales to your delight.

Close your eyes! Do not rest them upon me!

Your mirror repulses and leaves on aghast,

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Our Times


Outlandish ponderous propositions,
From a red lady championing sordid lies,
Words imitating superstitions,
From behind deeply dead ocean blue eyes.

But what is to be said to such trappings,
Of voices in deceptive overtones,
Guised in rose petals and thorny wrappings,
To swim in shallows or the deep with stones.

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Creased Pages

IMG_3200 The stories written on your wrinkled brow,

Each a poignant reminder of living,

Your expressions say more than words somehow,

Of your uncertainty and forgiving.

Of a youth of struggles and such grand plans,

Meandering feet and wondering minds,

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Hush your words, lest you lead me astray,

The dictionary repeats over me,

As we do write the same words on our way,

To complete what others will never see.

A symphony of corresponding notes,

A familiar tune of the wedded,

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