Many books spill over and out into the landscape of my home. Tumbling and falling, they cry out for attention.
They sit and sit, yet some receive nix; others, a cursory glance or an occasional flutter of my fingers.
Many books sit in a crate, ready to be loved by someone.
Head bowed. Sitting. Waiting. The clock ticks loudly. Time can never be fled from even in death.
The smell of anti-bacterial solution numbs the senses and leaves a sense of sadness in one’s thoughts.
Sitting tensely. Waiting. Flatlining beeps and screams of urgency. Head moves skyward.
Anguish grips the chest. A knowing that this is the end. Numb feelings and recollections of little things about that face.
Waiting for answers. They never come. Time passes. Fatigue sets into her bones. A person arrives. Trepidation increases. Waiting for her world to shatter. Knowing sadness. Overthinking it all.
The person says, “Come with me…”
The silence between them. Phantoms wait for sadness to come so that they can feed and devour the stench of heartache.
One look. He is not there, yet a body on the bed stays still. Sheets of white. Cold flesh. Death has come to her love.
Her world softens as a kind hand touches skin. Even now she feels love. “You will get through this…” She knows she will, but what of her love?
She sits by the water.
The river moves by, as fish take a peek every now and then.
“Do they know my broken heart?” she wonders, as nature’s carpet touches her feet.
A clumsy fish wiggles toward her then retreats.
A teardrop falls into the river.
The fish swims away.
In the snow.
The seat is bare, except for you and a few tidy possessions.
You’ve been down this road before; broken and broke.
There’s nothing like poverty to make you feel like you’ve made the wrong choices. Yet, you are liberated now; free on this bench in the snow.
You think, “How beautiful the snow is as it falls. If I was more familiar with words I would articulate this scene with more purpose and beauty, but I cannot convey this. This is a photograph or a painting…”
Still, in the snow, you don’t notice the gun against your head until the jolt ends the falling snow for you.
Your last moments: broke and broken; beautiful and sad; thinking of the falling snow.
What beauty in your death. Death on the bench in the snow full of a fading glow. Until the light turns to darkness. Then you get the chance to do it all differently.
under the soil.
you lay under the soil surrounded by the sounds of insects moving and water soaking into the soil.
under the soil, there is a wooden box.
you lay in the wooden box with roses that once blossomed and bloomed, yet now lay in petrified pieces upon your chest.
under the soil alone
you remain perfect in your chest of what once bloomed so beautiful and bright.
under the soil your blossom and bone.
you remain silent and still as the stars and the moon sing their song to you.
Never one to believe in anything,
you adopt an elitist attitude towards those whose opinions are not your own.
She finds you to be her one and only,
for you and her connected many lives ago.
Now you’re arguing insistently, without
fully appreciating what her lips and mind explain.
She feels a pang of hurt as you tear layers of her arguments away without thinking of the consequences.
Not one to see your own folly, you shovel the dirt from an increasingly large hole.
Seeing her chance, she pounces upon your weak argument like a Lioness from Eden.
Now you can really see her and your elitist bullshit begins to falter.
She catches you with her teeth, you flail about like a rabbit not long from death;
for you both to find deep love in two pairs of eyes.
Playing sad tears from the bow of horse hair you wield so well. Strings hear the echoes of your many sorrows, as they become vibrations and sounds, to ripple along your ivory skin. Memories of your lovers flow into the wood to haunt the many players of your violin.
A lawyer with a love for cooking and longing for sunshine, he cooks when he can. Sad and overworked, he pools all his funds, quits his job and becomes a chef. No more nasty principals with red pens; Now it’s vanilla slices, beef burgundy and banging the sexy waiter.
Listless and upset.
You sit clutching the remote control as if pressing the buttons will make things better.
He sits over there horny and haggard from listening to your grumpy taunts.
You’re upset with yourself more than anyone else, but you take it out on him.
He wonders when you’ll come to realise those pork sausages are the culprit.
You’re plagued by atrabilious feelings, which only heightens your cloudy thinking.
He does something out of character and gives you a Stomach Ezzy with water.
You’re so shocked you drink it, even though you’d like to cry into the glass.
He sits by you and waits with his eyes closed, for he feels the shit inside of you.
You feel rotten and put the glass and remote down, then paw his legs and feet.
He smiles and opens his eyes to say, “I see your mood’s improving little cat”.
You want to take the piss, but think better of it. All you can say is, “I’m sorry”.
He says, “Pretty one, that is enough…”
In the beginning, the world spun out of control. A course through hell would see you stand at 20 on the precipice of destiny. The choice you made was harder still, but the journey would be won. As 40 creeps closer, you look to the future with bright eyes and wise lips.