The World Turns

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Your head — spins

And your words — turn,

And all the things you never want to believe

Are those that will one day be hardest to scorn.

There is more to this world,

Than that narrow-minded,

Blinded,

Ignorant,

Uncaring,

Incorrigible view.

And when the world turns against

All the hatred that’s choking it,

What will hate-filled people like you do?

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Mannequin

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A mannequin strikes all kinds of poses,
Wears colours and clothes it cannot choose.
Has no need for perfume or even roses.
Has no opinions and nothing to lose.
Removing all options sounds akin to heaven,
Not lurching in decisions and getting things wrong,
If all is decided then think of the freedom
That comes with singing someone else’s song.
But what can come of being void of emotion?
What kind of life is lived when standing still?
If your only purpose is their ministrations,
What good are you when you no longer fulfill?

 

Anchor up

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There is no villain in this tale.
No final wound inflicted on this heart.
Just time to anchor up and and set sail.

This was a dream always doomed to fail
And flounder at the very end when we must part.
There is no villain in this tale.

There’s no pleading grip on this skin so pale,
No bleeding tears and no poisoned dart.
Just time to anchor up and and set sail.

The very air around our words has grown stale.
And though I dream of returning to the start,
There is no villain in this tale.

No last minute goodbyes in the mail,
Or rehearsing the lines that made up my part.
Just time to anchor up and and set sail.

I’m no weeping widow behind black veil,
And bewitching you was never my art.
There is no villain in this tale.
Just time to anchor up and and set sail.

Vain

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We all seek reassurance passing reflecting surface.

We all check our carefully positioned shields are intact.

But you. You’re like Cassiopeia with the Magic Mirror,

And no other vision can detract.

On Metro you check mask and mane immaculate.

Pass façade glimpsing perfection in every curve.

Who made you feel the need for such self inspection?

Who made you play this part of preen and preserve?

We all have the need for some introspection.

We all have things for which we feel some shame.

But please, I beg of those that I love dearest:

Shoot me in the face should I ever succumb to vain.

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Pelastajani

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I get what you said yesterday about not wanting to be saved.
It seems so purposeless.
Where’s the sense of being rescued when there’s nowhere to recover?
No more than a ‘there, there, it’s okay?‘

Of course.

They, who argue that you are needed, vital in this world
Would screech in indignance at your nerve
To want to walk away from this.

So tell me this.

When did They stop listening?
When did Their words rattle so empty
That it left You feeling hollow?

Maybe this isn’t the place for sorrow
But I’ve got no other place to go.
And neither do you.

I don’t tell them the dark has descended again
Because they don’t really want to know.
I know you feel that too.

So we should live. In spite of them all.
And if and when we have the gall
To stand strong, and whole, and proud,
We can declare, long and light and loud

We saved ourselves. Not You.

Cemetery

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I dream that I am in an unkempt cemetery.
I hover, like some badly-drawn angel just above my plain gravestone
With the dead posies crinkling brown into themselves, shrivelling in the sunlight.

I’ve never liked posies.
Never liked picked flowers at all;
Take me to a garden of wildflowers or more specifically, daisies,
And that is all the flower I could ask for.

I recall my funeral.
An empty, echoing church filled with silence.
There’s the people who feel duty to be there;
They wouldn’t even make a side in a hockey team.

You, I noticed, were not there.
Not present when my end came to pass,
Just like you’d grown not to be when there was still breath in my chest.
How is it that the pain of that still lasts
When I am merely mist in the wind?

And if this is a dream,
Some nightmarish landscape from which I can wake,
You still will be absent.
Conspicuously not there,
Faded into blank background like a sun-stolen painting.

There’s flickers of life in the cracked canvas:
An oil smear of memories that were happy and careless,
But overshadowed by too much smudging,
A thumb stroke showing you couldn’t care less.

Dead or alive, night or day, it’s time.
To stop haunting you.
To withdraw the ethereal connection that ceased,
Shrivelled long ago like deceased, decaying tendrils.

To stop finding patterns in plain painted walls.

To stop pretending that you’re someone that I know,
When I never really knew you at all.

I dream I am in a silent cemetery,
Six feet deep in an endless, peaceful sleep,
With nothing for company but me.
It’s not so bad.
I lay in a bed of daisies and dirt,
Succumbed to the mercy of being free from hurt.

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Blue grey

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So this is where I sit

To remind myself to forget you.

I couldn’t go much further South

And there’s miles of North between us two.

But still, I carry you like Talisman,

Like these shale pebbles beneath my feet on blue grey sand.

Here I sit, in my stone-formed chair,

Staring out into the sea

Attempting thoughts of clarity.

Fingers caress undulations of time,

Layers compressed by detritus of life

Into smooth, creamy blue grey shale.

Each peak and trough soft,

Shaped through histories of rain and gale.

I wish I saw my resemblance in its lines

But, over the lengthening of time

I’ve allowed pressure, and heat, to metamorphose me

Into slate.

I fear my moment has gone and now,

It’s too late.

Blue grey is the colour of your eyes;

They could convince the sea to wait.

 

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