AEA
One last gulp of air couldn't hurt, could it?
The rope tickles my nape;
brings out a rash from the fibre.
I want to scratch it,
but my hands are busy
covering the potential erection.
I swallow.
Feel it stick halfway.
It comes back to haunt me.
I laugh the dyer's laugh.
Missing Wolf
Industry beats cold tonight.
Seven a.m., the streets
awash in wintry mist.
Strangers in silence,
walking nowhere paths
to tomorrow's never.
Time rears its head
behind powdered cloud.
Sunlight sifts through
terminal star-shine.
Concrete, drunk with rain,
damp under the foot
of worn leather support.
Inhale cold air,
and exhale a vision.
The last dying lamps
are snuffed out in
perfect synchronicity.
The memory drops
from the shelf,
along with the years.
The frost. The day-job.
Salvaging the Cobalt Sea
They are dredging the sky.
The sky’s ocean in the below.
Globes of fire; illuminating hues
choke the air with a sting of bitter smoke.
The black chorus in the dark,
and they play obscured until daybreak.
A sun limps begrudgingly into
the frame with burning tears,
clouds melted long before,
and now looks down in despair,
where the luminescence of what was
has been stolen by the voracious earth.
The seas are shining. The waters are fragmented.
The Ash in the Hourglass
Once-supple beams
gnarled in remission.
From within the foliage,
the eyes of the world
happen to catch a glance,
a sight, of time escaping.
The sand trickles from silvery boughs,
bleached white in the wake
of their own mortality.
The glade shimmers in silence,
its breath muted in sunlight,
held in reflective repose.
Into night, disquieting winds
summon a storm at dusk.
The debris of ages becomes
engulfed in the torrent.
Fragments of monolithic ruins
stumble, shatter, disperse.
Sand seeps through the cracks
brought about by the morn.
The grains give themselves to the wind.
From the fragmented shadow,
the trunk makes no sound
as its heart breaks.
The tree wilts.
One last gulp of air couldn't hurt, could it?
The rope tickles my nape;
brings out a rash from the fibre.
I want to scratch it,
but my hands are busy
covering the potential erection.
I swallow.
Feel it stick halfway.
It comes back to haunt me.
I laugh the dyer's laugh.
Missing Wolf
Industry beats cold tonight.
Seven a.m., the streets
awash in wintry mist.
Strangers in silence,
walking nowhere paths
to tomorrow's never.
Time rears its head
behind powdered cloud.
Sunlight sifts through
terminal star-shine.
Concrete, drunk with rain,
damp under the foot
of worn leather support.
Inhale cold air,
and exhale a vision.
The last dying lamps
are snuffed out in
perfect synchronicity.
The memory drops
from the shelf,
along with the years.
The frost. The day-job.
Salvaging the Cobalt Sea
They are dredging the sky.
The sky’s ocean in the below.
Globes of fire; illuminating hues
choke the air with a sting of bitter smoke.
The black chorus in the dark,
and they play obscured until daybreak.
A sun limps begrudgingly into
the frame with burning tears,
clouds melted long before,
and now looks down in despair,
where the luminescence of what was
has been stolen by the voracious earth.
The seas are shining. The waters are fragmented.
The Ash in the Hourglass
Once-supple beams
gnarled in remission.
From within the foliage,
the eyes of the world
happen to catch a glance,
a sight, of time escaping.
The sand trickles from silvery boughs,
bleached white in the wake
of their own mortality.
The glade shimmers in silence,
its breath muted in sunlight,
held in reflective repose.
Into night, disquieting winds
summon a storm at dusk.
The debris of ages becomes
engulfed in the torrent.
Fragments of monolithic ruins
stumble, shatter, disperse.
Sand seeps through the cracks
brought about by the morn.
The grains give themselves to the wind.
From the fragmented shadow,
the trunk makes no sound
as its heart breaks.
The tree wilts.