Lost in the aged disco inferno
reliving your youth
feeling nostalgically wild and hip
hot pants and roller skates
flowing foxy bell sleeves
muffin hot pants and flats
a tragic wig
tie-dyed bell sleeves
Puffing after one song
You cried on the inside
when they cut your childhood
tree down for the fire.
You met her in nature,
a beautiful tree, you thought,
swaying in the forest.
Then you drew her in
charcoal on fine parchment,
for everything about her
was your favourite tree.
a sun melody
different leaf shades
different dying shades
a strong gust
reds, yellows, and Olivine
a bird song
rubbish moving in the wind
Rose petals turn a brown-yellow colour as the roses die on their stems.
A bee aims at your buns.
The sky threatens to shine a bit of sun on your skin.
A fly tries to taste your drink.
The banana chair grumbles underneath your weight.
You relax for a bit. The bee laughs.
To ponder the wind moving the grass. A sense of grace moves through the quiet places of our home.
Not one for religion, yet there is a sense of peace in a church where everyone is welcome.
My thoughts feed the Sunday night existential dread.
I sit and ponder.
“I haven’t seen you before. How did you get here so quickly?”
“Me? Yeah, well, I decided to grow overnight. I’m expecting my friends soon”.
“Aren’t you a weed?”
“Aren’t you a rose?”
“I think so. Passers-by say there are mirrors for that sort of thing.”
So, what’s the difference?
“You look like a tart; I look like a lady”.
“You are a bit thorny today”.
We had everything; rain-cloudy days, green grass on the hills, and the passing seasons.
Our beautiful home. Slowly and then rapidly, we destroyed all that we loved.
Now the lucky few found a new home of dust, rust, and the absence of rain clouds, season, and love.
A shadow behind me, something hidden, travels along.
The constant disappointments, no matter how hard I try. Longing for my hard work to pay off, yet I never fit in.
So close I feel her breath. My evil twin, my doppelgänger, keeps playing cruel games with my life.
Watching the trees, farms, and everything else whizz past from the bus window.
For a moment, I was a member of the landed gentry, safe with the knowledge that my future was comfortable until the family told me who to marry.
I go back to watching the trees and the cows.
You walk away from humans when emotions get tough, interactions get too real, and the hurts too rough.
You keep making excuses for your life choices, being broke, and having no friends.
A bottle a day keeps everyone away, is what you love to say.
It becomes too much on Christmas Day as you feel your soul fading away.