Doll House

Time remains suspended as you wander through the ghosted hallways within my mind
Leaving opened doorways and rifled curtains in your wake
Content within the peaceful stillness of a slowly settling chaos.

The glass ceilings illuminate your figure, your face turned towards the pouring sunshine
A quiet smile settled upon your lips as your closed eyes watch the world through mine.

Each kiss roots itself into this doll house, breathing life into the rose-coloured walls
Honeysuckle painting the tiles, the mahogany floorboards heaving with each embrace,
A perpetuating story within our own as the music of our souls dances through and fills each room.

Sinking

I feel my heart softly singing to me, lullabies of our tale
Warming our whispered memories, humming within my veins
As I breathe of the air you kissed me with, cradled within my soul.

I desperately consume your shadowed remains
As I fall to a stilled recline
Pausing
Fighting
Falling for nature's design,
And betrayed by an act that denies the power I gave
To love and to hurt
An honour exchanged for my soul
I drown to be blind
Your step in par with mine.

On Fire

The first burn barely registered as I watched the sparks filter seamlessly through the strands, consuming and destroying years of an adherence, a solitude, a stand. Now obsolete. A beautiful irony. A guise.

In contrast, the choking heat left me breathless, the fog refining a clarity that settled my eyes on a fallen dream that lay before me. My face in the sweeping breeze, I wonder whether I was wrong. I take a deep breath and turn away from my dying resolve.

The last burns like no other. It is a desire so deep that once sated, it rises again to the surface. Never fully complete. A rekindled fire of shadows flickering in the light. Fine-tuned on repeat.

Contained

Each upward stroke leaves no trace
Of the effort of a tremorous hand
As layer upon layer, until perfection achieved
Found tracings of softly sought strands
Lay hidden beneath blocked lines.
Lines that are full, plump-mouthed and  fierce
In vibrant colour and sound
Barely held in by the splayed lashes, the brushes
The farce.
The strays leak beyond the masked aligned
In a clamour of crazed vision and voice,
Of a tortured stance that bends, submits
And exhilarates beyond the stretched confines
Spilling, dripping and dancing in a hunger of madness
Of the soul. Off the page, off the canvas
The walls, the rooms destroyed
Barely visible beneath the fire of a sanity devoid.
Spectacular.
Calm.

The slowly dying flames char the remains
Of the clarity to our soul
And all that we retain
Are the layered strokes of perfection
Purposed in a hardened veneer.
And with subdued hues
Of an emptied plane
The strokes are placid and clear.

'Destiny is no matter of chance. It is a matter of choice: it is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved.'

William Jennings Bryan

Can you make a mistake and miss your fate?

Only 21

It was as though we walked in procession to her daughters wedding chamber. A sick joke. For although her daughter lay in a virgin gown of white, there were no jewels, no veil, no laughter. Instead, she lay stiff yet somehow crumpled on a bed of plastic and metal, held in by a frame as though imprisoned in a box.

Her face was distorted, swollen and grotesque, a bloodied gauze by her nose. Uncontrollable tears coursed their way down masked faces, each bosom heaving with the reality of the words her mother haltingly breathed, 'I can't stand to look at her. She doesn't look like my baby any more'.

I could both understand and relate. It was in the face of grief I remembered the destructive nature of the power of what we breathe, air. The supreme force with which oxygen can be buried into a body has the ability to annihilate the delicacy of what it touches. Almost like a game, to reach out and stroke such a hand in the heart of this storm would be like popping bubble wrap.

Such can be the face death. Not beautiful, not divine, but threateningly real. And yet within its midst, we remember to praise our Lord.

Consequential

To be careful of one because of the two, whilst the third is acknowledged and the fourth is who?
And on to continue with the little or none, and each time I remember, it began at one.

Lost in a Moment

It was my moment to keep. To be dragged across the nettled boundaries, each haul another naive acceptance of an affair whose intensity brought out a wrathful lust, it's fearsome hold of disregard slowly corroding through the guarded mantles of desire. Therein lies a ridiculous progression of the inevitable understanding despite the parading howls of a wounded ego. Who are we to disregard the prophecy of our souls.

A Closing Reign

A slow fusion of all that recreates lays dormant in a cycle of reversed repeat. And as we slide between the tangential planes of parallel thought, the paths strayed upon draw circumstantial respect from vectors beyond our veiled gaze. These answers voice an echo within an entombed feud of the heart and soul. Yet it is our actions that pose a mystery of a defined reign of coveted will and vulnerability whilst an affiliation is merely the sound-proofing of our affairs. 

Unguarded, each swept glance brings us closer to a truth beyond the conflict of design.

Let me be the womb to your clutches of
despair. Let fire and neglect bore down
into bloodied depths in a feast upon
this scavenged life. And in a shuddering
wakening of the soul, starvation shall
create what mirth could not and it is in
this derailed peace that there is a failing
molestation of the pure. From this shunned
burial ground will emerge a carnaged
soul, cuccooned in a stolen reprieve. There
it yearns for the expanse beyond its tomb,
to which it is hurled in a brusque exchange
for air; now a wretched existence in
a guise to beguile as it reclines in
the arms of its prey.

Ecstasy

Piecing together the scraps that we lay from the trails of volcanic encounters, we spiral down the lines of the music sheet, as exhilarating as the notes we strike. Its voyage caresses us beyond the dreamless limit of a subconscience assault, expanded only by a high so exclusive that in searching for an encore, we throw ourselves beyond the boundaries of desire. This contaminant to our exile is a dance so sensuous that the very air vibrates with life. And as we fly far above the free and explore what we imagined only the enlightened could perceive, we realise that perhaps we have joined the ranks of folklore as we breathe in the life that only myths could foretell.

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