Special?

You thought you were special
But you were just another name upon
An e'r increasing list
Another hopeless, wretched fool
I never should have kissed

You thought you were special
That yours would be the last mouth
That my straying lips would touch
My lips were never faithful
Though you never guessed as much

You thought you were special
That you'd made your bed in mine
That only your head on the pillow would lay
You never smelled the scent, left
By another the very same day

Beautiful simplicity

The fact that he made the bed with grace and care while she was showering this morning should not have been a fact worth remarking upon.

The fact that he kissed her when she was wet-haired and robed should have been nothing so very significant.

The fact that he brought her coffee, made the eccentric way she liked to drink it, should have been equalled by a 'Thank you'.

The fact that these three pieces of beautiful simplicity stood out so prominently in her mind made her question a horrible, swarming multitude of her previous decisions and acceptances and made her wonder, 'This beautiful simplicity; could I love it?'

Man's Miseries

By sitting in a room, alone and in silence, I can crush all man's miseries. Or my own, at least.

By being still I can quell the tide of chaos in my mind and let it breathe freely; a tranquil sea of calm.

By closing my eyes I can disappear the bloodstained wreckage wrought by a world armed with weapons of irrevocable devastation, a world gone mad.

But being alone, totally alone, the way in which we enter and leave this place, being still, still like a levitating sage, closing my eyes, the way in which the eyes of the perpetually blind are closed, it is easier to think, to say, to write than it is to be.

And because of this, man's miseries are sharper and keener and bloodier than ever.

Walk on Water

I can walk on water.

Didn't you know?

You might think you are floating in the air, that you are exquisitely propelled by the beautious winds of the universe, that the cosmos is guarding your soul; but it is all an illusion.

One day, you will realise.

One day, you will come crashing down to earth. No amount of pseudo-spirituality or trite sickly sixties songs will be able to fix you. You will be broken. Forver.

But I can walk on water, grant wishes, raise the dead.

And I can send you into eternal oblivion too.

Last Legacy

It was a paltry legacy with which you left me, a legacy of debt and disillusionment, catastrophe and chaos.

Like a cunning monster stalking its prey, you ensnared me when I was most vulnerable and had the least to offer, and yet took from me more than anyone ever has, or ever could. I had little enough to begin with; you gave me nothing and now I find myself with less than that.

You used the locks of my hair to line your den, used my flesh to sustain you, used my soul to shield yours from horrors of your own making, swilled my blood round your glass like ruby wine and gulped it down; I have bled for you, and I begrudge you every tiny drop.

Had I let you, you would even have used my bones as firewood when the winter winds whipped cold.

But, in the end, the legacy you left damns you, not me.

No kind of man would do what you have done. No kind at all.

The Photographs

He should never have stolen them.

He knows that now.

What was he trying to gain, he wonders, as he leafs through print after print, all as shiny and glossy as the lives and loves they depict. The smiles portrayed therein are so full, so genuine, he struggles not to find them mocking.

Most of all, he looks at her; at her bewitching combination of blue eyes, brown hair and skin like an unblemished canvass.

She should have been mine, he thinks.

He looks also at the man by her side, the man holding their two chidlren in various places, at various stages of beautiful infant growth, echoing her physical wonder, haunting him with their eyes. The man, he tries so hard to dismiss, to disfigure, but the children are different.

They should have been mine, he thinks.

He had known it for a while, of course, for years, but somehow the photographs make it real and the smiles stab like kitchen knives.

He burns the photographs; but their smoldering corpses do not nearly resmble the genocidal sorrow of the ashes of his own life.

Straight and Fast

I am now on my knees amidst the pieces of my shattered heart, which remain untidily littered across the floor; no-one but I can see them.

You cannot fight life; it will all but slaughter you and lead you here, to you knees, without energy even for silent tears. It will leave you crying for a way out and laugh in your face when your will falters and your hands hesitate.

To nurture life is the most beautiful thing anyone can do.

To nurture death and will it to live destroys the soul; I am surprised it took me so long to see it.

‘How will I ever get out of this labyrinth?’ - a question much pondered by far greater minds than I.

‘Straight and fast.’ - an answer composed by a far greater writer.

Straight and fast, then, it may be.

The Damned

She never knew she was capable of so much hatred.

Did not realise that her bones would shake and her teeth would rattle in her anger.

Suspected not that she would become a resounding skeleton, reverberating with the strength of her own hatred.

She will summon the Styx to rise up and drown him, summon the gods to savage him and damage him, summon the universe to damn him into Dante's farthest circle of hell.

Fickle Finger of Fate

I was a fool, and did not realise that being a fool was a crime which merited such a harsh sentence.

Foolish I was, to tempt Fate; its fickle finger, which once betstowed blessings, has been all too quick to jab its pointed talon through the soft underbelly of my dragon's armour.

So quick I was to bemoan the lack of being able to boast about the brokeness of my heart that I did not realise said heart would soon be crushed and smashed.

I wanted all the romance and disaster of a broken heart simply so that I could have what others had and now I find myself with the shattered remnants of something that was once red and shining and vibrant and whole, the mutilated pieces of which are strewn across the tiles of my kitchen floor.

There are no sobs. There is no attempt to pick them up and make them whole; I know, at least, when a task is futile.

And I know too I was right - when something has been broken, there is no way to mend it.

Never Attempt...

You can't catch a butterfly in a jar and expect its beauty to remain.

Butterflies are destined to fly, and fly they do. By design, they fly away.

Never attempt to catch a butterfly in a jar; it will either escape you or leave you failed and miserable. In both eventualities, you will be left to ponder on your ugliness and your defeat.

If you are fortunate enough to have a butterfly bless your day, simply pause and perceive its beauty as it flies, free and unencumbered past you.

It hurts less, that way.

The Race

I always was better at the sprint than the long distance.

I thought I never had the stamina, but it was simply that I did not have the requisite endurance.
If I could not at least see the end, I saw no real point in beginning the race.

To my shame, if I stood no genuine chance of winning, I was not interested in the ‘taking part’.

This leaves me ill equipped for life.

Half my life ago, I had thought it would be a sprint; that I would live fast, die young, secure my place not only in the cosmic consciousness, but in the ego-centric archives of human history.

Like so many things, it has not worked out that way. My place is humanity’s chronicles is as yet unsecured, my life stretches somewhat painfully out ahead of me.

I wish I knew where lay that elusive finish line; I may run with greater speed and determination if I did.

Goodbye To Summer

Goodbye To Summer

This has been the darkest season I have ever known.

Yet all the time, I prayed for light, for hope, for a rewinding of time.

The gods in their heavens did not listen, or paid no heed to my senseless call. I know this now.
And who am I to question the will of the gods?

Summer is gone.

She is not coming back.

All through the rain I cherished the fake presence of her absence. All through the mud I waded with her placed inside me, still hoping that she would blossom, still desperate that she should bloom. All though the dark she was a light, still flickering; a light that only I could see.

But now is Autumn’s Dawn, not Summer’s Eve.

Now do the winds begin to whip more fiercely and the nights to draw more savagely. Now must I prepare myself for a season of seclusion and stillness.

Now must I wave Summer away, like a shining vessel on a river of calm, illuminated by the light of a thousand fireflies.

I must not cry, when she slips from my sight.

I must not weep, when I am forced to face this dark alone.

I must wish her well, don my boots and shield my face against the wind and accept that Summer is gone.