The World Turns


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,




Incorrigible view.

And when the world turns against

All the hatred that’s choking it,

What will hate-filled people like you do?




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.




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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I’m holding a clear glass bauble in my hands.

Inside is a cherished memory of my time with you,

When I was a small sailship, navigating unmanned.

I’m holding a frosted glass bauble in my hands.

Its surface is pitted with your words

And inside, once sharp images are blurred,

And rounded as though blasted by sand.

I’m holding a broken glass bauble in my hands.

How could I have been so very wrong about its contents?

Not a single word you said was ever meant.

And there was nothing to any of the time we spent.

Glass fragments leave bloodied cuts in my hands,

Spelling out the words I don’t want, but need to understand:

It’s time to let you go.


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So lost today.
I want to run, but my legs are marble.
I want to hide, but I’m too exposed.
I want to be, but I’m done with living.
I want to go, but I have no home.

I’m broken.
Normally, so happily fragmented,
Scattered far, and sparse, and wide,
Running from a sense of being needed,
Desperate for something, but what, I cannot decide.

I do not belong.
And I’m going nowhere.
But I don’t fear that I’ll drag you along.
Because it’s been an age since you have been there,
And now I question all that I’ve done wrong.

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