Poetry | Stories | Photography
A foreigner at the train station,
living within a radical quiet skin.
Too tall for discount shoes,
too solid for little clothes.
“Looking down on me!” they
walk past and impolitely say.
There is no other way for you
are shorter than me, grumpy.
The mask covers the mood.
Tired and burnt out. No one could give me the strength to move my body from the chair, yet you have that power.
Once the kettle boils, you go into my cup.
My sweet teabag, I love you so much. I might dunk you in the water just a few more times.
Our idyllic country.
Towering stone walls threaten to stop the moon from shining, yet we want for nothing.
Each morning we chant, “All belongs to all, all move in one direction, all unite to thank our utopia”.
Our idyllic country was built on the blood and bones of lies.
Running in the snow. The forest disorientates you.
The face of a wolf in the distance clams you. A familiar.
You slump against a tree.
Too young to freeze, yet too old to endure the middle of winter; distant voices sound.
You wake from a fever.
The cat licks you.
A black and white room
Classical glam with a twist
Envious longing
Colours of your ombre hair
Mix with your blood on the floor
Tim’s friends describe him as a quiet introvert. They love his kind presence.
The news ran a story about the rise of an oppressive cult leader.
One friend swore it was Tim, and others weren’t sure; however, all agreed Tim would never do what that maniac did to those people.
Home from a long day and hungry,
looking in the fridge for inspiration.
Sitting down to take off the shoes,
floating away in tired mind clouds.
Inspiration takes hold, then “Fark!”
A single tear rolls down your face,
cursing your poor smashed toes.
You enter through a portal door,
innocuous, different.
A mistake I did make,
for you take the quiet spaces.
You invade every facet of my life;
no room left for my words.
I push back against the deluge,
you won’t listen.
You turn,
I close the portal door.
A quiet carriage,
thoughts of being alone.
The tension remains
as the passenger fidgets.
Headphones separate us,
yet there is no escape.
Living in a prison of sorts
wishing for the platform to arrive.
Why must every window be viewed
when it’s so dark outside?
Spring has come to your heart, yet I sit here in my Winter world wondering what you’re doing with all of those so-called “friends“.
I love you, yet you are like a Hydrangea in bloom. Your love will last from early spring until late Autumn, yet it never sustains the Winter.
C & K 