Aspired

Your bones
Cling still
To that wall.

A forever scene
Of your
Last stand.

Bleached,
The colour of time.
A pale reminder

That you tried

To climb higher
Than anyone

Is allowed.

Oh Don’t You Speak To Me

Wrap that sound.
Soft and gentle. 
Paper and string.
Then send it my way.
It can gather dust,
On a shelf in the corner.
Until, the last time.
Shaking hands reach.
To pull that bow,
Loose.

Your Grateful Victim

With gentle hand.
Above unbroken
Cloud green gaze.
Weaved and matted. 
Fingers round hair.
Combined.
Until, so silently,
With softest smile. 
You stole
That name away. 

Away Before The Sun Awakes

The sun sets now.
And you. 
Away down that
One clear road.
Round corners and
On, on further.
Till out of sight. 
Still.
The scene
Plays on repeat.
Repeat. 
Until.
Corners bend
Tighter.
The road
Runs thinner,
Sharper.
And the sun.
Burns red.
Evermore.
And you
Away.
To nothing.
But a burnt
Memory.

In My Words You Are

Glass raised.
Hand aloft.
A simple toast.
Slowly whispered.
Fails to stir
Even the dust.
But it has been
Said. 
As was needed.
Will be repeated.
Its meaning
Never less
Painful.
The speaker
Never more
Alone.

The Memory Thief Strikes

Each day
I wrote
A memory.
On a scrap
Of paper.
Yesterday
The wind
Stole it
High away
From me.
And now
I live, and
Hope,
That lost
Memory
Has been
Taken
By a bird
Who now
Thinks
He lost
His first
Love in
Winter.

It Slipped My Mind While The TV Was On

One day.
I would like
You to start
A charity for me.
To keep alive
The memory,
Of all those
Who had plans,
But never quite
Got around
To doing what
They really
Wanted to do.

On My Memorable Way

I no longer know
What a home is
To have.
Nor what a place
Is to stay.
As my feet are
Worn from moving.
On and over all.
My spirit used to
Jumping from love
To next obsession. 
For the illness
It runs deep.
From the scar that
Makes me move. 
Pushing me
To lands of light
Of deepest dark.
So, all I ask of you
Is a simple stone,
Where ever it was
My birth took place.
So even if I forget
All and more.
You might remember
Me.

This Fog Of Mine

I could tell you a story.
About yesterday.
Or so it would seem
To me.
And every detail would
Be pin sharp.
All the characters
Oh so well defined.
But why I am here
On this very day.
And telling a tale
To you, just you.
I admit
To not having
The faintest clue.

Step To Me

To dance with you
My dear, would be
Such a joy.
To lead you with
Black clad hands,
Along this long
Tiptoed road.
To dance with you
My love, would be
A delight.
To hide you with
My quick step
Spell, until you
Are a fading memory,
To everyone but
Me.