Scars of youth

It was everything all over again

The past as present, years had trickled by, but much as once was still is
Weathered and aged in form, yet essence un-dimmed
Scars of youth burning now as they did when cut
It is that battle we fight, again and again, it’s all we ever fight
Remembered but not learnt and so doomed

That hurt still hurting

Those eyes still smiling
What’s missing still left wanting
Journey’s taken but little distance covered
Hand reached out, ever reaching never touching

So creeps anger

On the fringes it sulks and seeps, creeps it covets
It can break
It can fuel
It is

If the past is a landscape, given relief by the follies and adventures of our past selves then anger is a harsh whipping wind

Flagellated but the moment never comes

Till the night

She drank.

A seductively curved wine glass raised close to her lips, it’s deep red contents gently rocking between the edges of the thin glass. The candle light throwing out chaotic dance steps of the light, keeping beat to a rhythm of its own; revealing colourful hints of ruby and black, in a myriad shades of red.

Raised, the glass is above her face, tilted back is her head with eyes closed. She waits in anticipation for the liquid to wash down her mouth, eager to quench a thirst. The elegance of her neck exposed, an unexpected consequence of her indulgence, with tender flesh and soft skin made easy target.

Curves more seductive than any glass, tantalising to healthy appetite, but hopeful she is: that one hand explores her tender stretches of skin, that kisses from a special one discover every nerve.

As she drinks, she wants; but speaks not. As she drinks she is watched, and wanted; but knows not.  

She would draw them in, but they remain just a sketch: form known but edges rough and indecisive. The precision she craves upon her, lost.

The night passed. Frustration remained.

Morning is greeted with a hazy memory of the tension of the night before, a clear filter applied by the bleaching sun and the day goes on.

A sobered mind regained control, till the night.

The Glorious Past

To the glorious past;
and the myth of half remembered yesterdays.
Where ground you can retread,
but whose prizes have long since gone.

To the glorious past;
where the dead still live.
We greet and not saying goodbye.
Opportunity has not yet passed,
and first impressions can still be made.

To the glorious past;
with blue skies and shining sun.
Of bodies tanned, toned and young.

To the glorious past;
and the moments before the plunge.
With the race not yet won.

Why would I not be in the glorious past?

To the glorious trap;
a labyrinth of chasing shadows.
Where grasping hands only ever clench smoke.
The shot but an echo and the powder gone.

To the glorious trap,
should never have looked back.
Went for comfort and ended lost.

To the glorious past, that glorious trap.

Heat

I hate the heat,
That gnawing, creeping thief.
Movement made a penitent act,
Where muscles moan and thoughts are fucked.
The soul is sapped, or so it seems.
I hate the heat that steals my sleep.

The night is nasty,
In this oven's embrace.
Flesh peeled free from where sin does seep.
Temptation a tease castrated by confines,
Of this damn heat that steals my sleep.

No sleep,
No dream,
Just the endless moonlit,
Boiling tomb.
Cursed by the heat, that steals my sleep.

Start

Broken hands that fumble with the pen,

Whose ink would flow from a broken mind.

Open, broken so such things could spill.

It's a danger,

Knowing too much.

Either you're knowledge to be silenced, or,

A knowing waiting to be set free.

The revolution hinges, not on capacity, but the willing to do. 

To use.

Revolution.

If only the eyes

If only the eyes,

Then you 'd miss the thumping chest, beating heart and straining lungs.

If only the eyes,

Then you'd miss the heavy beads of sweat rolling down the face, over chest, then to be lost forever.

If only the eyes,

Then you wouldn't hear the heavy, laboured breathing, spittling into the breeze.

If only the eyes,

Then your target has been met.

If only the eyes,

Had seen you staring back.

If only the eyes.

Fumbled?

It tumbles,

the leaf it slowly falls;

a graceful decent.

Slow swoosh and swing.

It tumbles,

as if the tree had fumbled.

Nature releases,

sometimes letting go.

From quiet extinction, to

violent armageddon.

Nature lets go,

for nature to grow.