A yellow chiffon sunset
buries itself,
particles of ash
rise in auburn sun-rays
like souls
flocking towards
white-light.
The stars- road-signs
in the vapour purple-blue pool break
of a new day,
point nowhere.
The Sky- a turquoise
shrine, haunted by
familiar voices
warnings we choose to ignore
afraid of facing
whatever's there
in our pasts;
our ghosts-
anchored to sin.
Stir in the air
and burn up
in the scarlet sun.
One day
you'll find that
polaroid shot of us.
You'll notice the faint;
ghost-like, tyre tracked
skin, belonging to me.
Marvel and ponder at
the state of me.
You'll feel the curve
on my neck, which could
have been pristine porcelain,
but was damaged by your
contact.
You'll trace the
microscopic love-bites
your trade mark lips
did leave, follow the
purple-pink bruises,
moth shaped leaping
from your angry, love
drunk hands, threatening
to trap their delicate wings.
One day you'll see-
the weight of your love
tattooed all over my skin.
'Dumb regrets;
red-glowing
the flames from you envelop me, even as
borne on from care to care, I near the sill
of sleep.'
-Umberto Saba, Ashes.
When I was a
pink fleshed baby.
I was speechless,
unable to hurt you.
My words were
light, bright-
unattached to life.
Alone they could
do no harm.
Only as poems
addressed to you,
do they cause injury.
As you try to read
hidden meanings between
the lines, although
there are none.
Everything I write
in black and white.
Is printed proof in
front of your eyes.
Undeniable.
If there was any place
which you could forget.
The broken pulsations
of your heart and discard
the sorrow from your eyes,
whilst you read.
You'd shrink into that
aimless embryo of a man,
lie once again in the
womb of your mother.
And forget that I ever
existed.
'What I believe, I'll wail'
-Macbeth
You hate this time of year
when the leaves free- fall from trees
abandon their homes, displace order.
You despise the fading sun
in the earlier hours of dusk,
denying natures law.
Take it as a sign- a bad omen.
You cannot understood
that people change,
sometimes for the better,
sometimes for the worse.
You fear the trees
caped in frost, frozen-
crystallising a moment in time.
Proudly displaying; the unscheduled weather.
With no rules or prophecy.
