And so returns the night..

A slight and convincing novice, lie I at night,
With words so weak and a mind so active,
I give away little by sight.
And further my days, retreating inwardly,
Downward it feels, when it is only inside.
Little leaves this mouth that is truly felt,
And unhappiness is masked in irritance and terrible verse.
There should be marvellous rhyme,
There ought be fine and passionate spelling,
And yet leaks from I,
A simple salt solution of which my body is bitter and wrung.
And should we visit passion again,
Should I have a true calling,
Come ever, it’s voice, revealing it’s love for me,
Living in my breath and singing in my voice.
But no such passion has infected me,
No talent embedded in this flesh.
I am the novice that dulls the moment,
I am the weak voice at the end of a dark hall.
I am the expendable, the necessary character to move on to the next scene,
I have become little more a legend than a baby continuing to swim.
Such hope did old voices have in me,
Once I was so missed.
And now I flick at the cobwebs here, in my own dismal abyss.
As I say, however, it is not to be found around I,
But deep inside; it aches to be cleaned,
Are my fears engraved in here?
Do vile shades linger in wait?
I am placeless, and I am label-less,
I look like nothing in particular, and have about as much to contribute.
A pallor like any other,
And eyes that are eyes as they are.
Give in to sleep tonight, the unloved,
Lying by the one.
And attempt calm tonight, unloved,
Become the pain and diminish it.
I grow heavy in body, and mentally I strive to the melancholy still,
Where nothing moves on nor becomes tired nor changes,
I may be always this way.
But should it ruin it all, should it just,
That your irritated nature should dwell beside me,
And finally the wall has begun,
How hard I try still to warn.
You hear me so little through sleeping eyelids,
My nightly begging becomes prayer in slumber.
How beautiful you appear by the light of sleep,
And in this, this silence destroys me.

Room of rubble.

Yes, I have set my bags down on strange floors again, oh it has indeed been a while. It is the same city, with a different rhythm running through its vein, I myself bleed the same and yet this particular home is of different shade. I am not settled, God wonders when I ever will be, but I am calm, and slowly, my area becomes breathable, I adapt and yet still circle the edge.
I have not heard from a handful of particulars since departing again, I guess you should honestly be careful what you do ask for early on.
The first week had my dull of inspiration leaking back with a fresh vibe, the sort of trickle a mountain spring offers. The beauty of the space between the back of the taxi and the tarmac beneath, droplets of rain between, shone to me like no other. Do not call it a muse, but call it a breath.
Atop the bed I currently sit, it is not mine and yet I rest, joins me; the boxes. And many of them. Piled and coloured, bulging and half empty. Each sound beneath my large window is the delivery van I await, each creak, a possible guest of whom I am not willing to allow within yet.

I guess this should be brief, for words of my life are weak at present. I have been suffering internally, and to know one's necassary concern, it is all self-prod and question, and I unfortunately have little to soothe it. Oh but my shell, how lusciously she is treated, her skin dampening with age each day and yet soothed by a familiar and loving hand. The window we sleep beside ever brighter, and still do I hide in my shade.
It can be sweet, you know, just you. But no sweet will come without time, work and progress.
Oh do not end on a dull note! For each day is a grand oak door, for each dawn is the silk web of winter's morning and my evenings are the coloured crystal of occasion.

In case you had yet to realise, Autumn is breathing in through the window, and I inhale it's cool.
I'm coming back to life.

'A true sehnsucht...'

I long for beauty like this,
Oh, you, in a dull morning light.
It is the curve, the cure to irritation,
My skin crawling and the winter breeze tingling;
Tease, it does, at the bottom of my bed.
I've seen so little like this before,
And I have heard every word in a different order,
Each letter the wrong way round, each day glanced through frosted glass,
You are the clearing,
You are the centre of the field on a white day of fog.
I honestly don't mind where I end up,
The dregs of want from the past are ebbing away,
Lingering in unconscious but laughing at me no more.
And why should I sleep?
They are here, and within,
And mostly, you are only here. For you, the thing you are, leaves me in the unconscious,
You frighten and astound!
And so charming you are,
When you are grinning in malicious spirit.
How beautiful the face without expression when I wrench open my eyes,
When breath fails me for seconds,
And you sigh in your sleep.

I find there is no back,
No other side to a wall.
In arms, in embrace, I need not air, I need not object,
And yet we cannot delay reality's presence.
That pathetic entrance of Summers weak sun.
It bleeds into my room such as the night did end,
It drapes across the teased image of you,
And it stirs the lid of your eye,
The trembling skin of disturbance.

Quickly, do the words scrawl the walls,
Severed, you crawl from my sheets.
Motionless, how on earth do I part for my day?
How do-able it all is!
How ill that makes me!
Easily I may take each day, I may slip into each situation,
Without you.
So much sweeter, with an air of atmospheric treasury could it be,
With you,
The sky the gold it goes, when the rain has fallen, and the Summer night sun weakly bleeds in,
Again against the thick of smoke clouds.
A fire has fallen,
Here I gain,
And here you have given your hand.

''Something I cannot, can see me''.

An aged story.


Will I spend my life doing this?
Taking on the old information as if new?

I heard the trees anger last night,
As alll that filled the 4am streets was my own whisper,
Ordinarily.
The rest that filled the silence was suddenly all collapture.
To look above me,
My footsteps ended,
Paused, and slotted into the cobbles.

The damp road an empty stage to the rustling and the breaking above me,
I could almost trace the sound with my eyes,
It moved around as if some thing on all fours ran-a-mock on the tree tops,
Beneath the shielded moon.
I was a build up,
A tension.
And I waited for something to drop,
As I spied a star through the mess of leaves.

Some of autumn, some clinging onto what was left of the weather,
I waited.
Surely a branch would have stopped breaking?
But the sound of ripping bark and clattering leaves progressed,
An orchestra building up,
"Something I cannot, can see me".
Was tonight, my ordinary night, The night?
For all the shredding, the grinding rips,
Nothing fell on the floor.

But I waited, I even stepped into the dark from the lamp's light,
Directly beneath the sound, willing it to test me.
But perhaps I wanted it too much that night,
Or maybe I wasn't truly fearless,
They saw me unfit?
Still I pictured this creature on the tree tops, lining Queen's square,
All that was beneath, such ordinaire,
And are all above such hair tinted creatures?
Drooled and thirst?
I ached my neck back,
Realising the horizon was lightening, for it was apparent.
And all in such short time,
the climax came too little.

Little but what the creature had left,
That was swaying wood out of eye's sight,
And the fluttering leaves that rumbled humbly in disturbance,
As if attacked and reacted,
As a body would to a needle.

All but tonight.

Nothing saved me from my plight,
I was just another colour under midnight's light.

Wake me from this, I wondered,
Pondering on an ending,
Or not seeing beach light again.
As I left the cobbles closer,
I ran thoughts through a bitterly set mind.

Surely, if I cannot sleep as alive,
I shan't sleep when I am dead either?

Commited to a wander that is mood lead,
Waiting to be accepted into eternity?
See, I think they're watching.
I'm waited.
I'm watched.
But I'll go out in daylight today,
It hidden by grey cloud and musk.
And the goers by,
Suits, ties, and nine to five thirty,
Scurry as rats do to the sewers,
To the train stations, to the bus depos.
As I rest weary, moon streaked eyes,
And pace out around them.
A slower, more tuned walk than they, gushes by,
With worries of such,
That I once would have dreamt, yet dreaded having,
As a ten year old wishing amnesia upon my self.

And wishing for all the woes of an ordinaire.
Yet the moment I spend my ordinary walk home,
Claiming and comparing,
To be as ordinary as;
Those who eat ordinarily for a living,
Those who ignore the ache in their side,
Those who pine for those they cannot have,
Those who find those of a similar life,
A tree snaps before me.
And they wonder if I'm truly ready.
As do I.

If rain.

Delightful it is!; To sit beside a window cracked,
And letting in air as cool as is held in the crypt!
Rain does thud at my glass today,
And grey has coloured the dull blue that was.
Autumn feels closer than the month would suggest,
And a book of age lies at my chest.

To sit is absolute, and to listen to nothing but!
I have the calm and the serene today,
Of a lady who, once, knew precisely what she wanted,
Of a cat who hauled in the birds beside the mice!

I question my dreams today, I ask them why they haunt me so?
I may have taken a restful gaze toward a window dotted,
But the lingering images behind these eyes are of creatures, unsettling.
Yes, just last night I gave in to sleep,
And slept for as long as I might ever,
Until. And then dream did come. Did taunt!
It lay out fears my mind had only just come across,
And oh how well it did!

If my mind would write, quite the story you would read.
It put poison in my drink! It led him by another! It threatened at solitude of an outing,
It may as well have put fire in my sky!
I am distrustful of my mind in sleep!
Here, here I lay in a comfort I have made,
And it laughs, it gives a foul hissing laugh, as I fall empty into unconsciousness.

The sweet rain pounds harder now, it sweetens the horizon,
And my mind is withdrawing the memory,
I pry so that I may word the fears and paint the creature;
Yet it pulls back as slowly and effortlessly as the tide receeding.
My mind but sand, my fingers protruding with difficulty, clutching as if suffocating.
Only to dream again.

~

Murk has my mind been,
And just of late has it swum back with the tide.
I am aware, if at all, that such as the shadow through a window,
Of rain upon a familiar portrait, in a dark and deep, elaborate room,
Forgotten and anachronistic,
Love does begin to patter at perfection.

The Muesem.

Is it the quiet,
The dead of the night?
Oh, so may I ask of you,
A favour of your being.
Just be by, you see I've a vacant plot,
I sit here often,
Oh won't you stay?
Not long ago did I weep alone,
So sweet were my blues,
I tried my house into a home,
And oh, tired china, dim glass and heavy curtain,
I find here, by the window, I am alone again.

A crackle, the breaking of bone beneath feet in the garden,
The usual desire that you should be visiting me at strange hours,
Such is the thought that brings you not me.
Terror left my eyes just years before,
Oh vacant plot that sits in these glassy rounds,
Won' t you be the one to fill them?
To breathe life into a glimmering reflection,
I see wood, deep mahogony,
I see Gold, Oh Browns! ... I see ornate chains!
And a movement undetected.
Sir, have you taken my hand?
So cold that you are, I could have mistaken you for dawn's gentle breeze.

You see now, I am saving myself,
So simple it is when you have no desire.
But the electricity you pulse through me,
My need to create at your side,
Had it passed by me, I would have been but an empty, ornate shell,
A treasure lying upon the sands of another ocean.
But we would have ended up in the same room at some point.



And now, in ruins, my body lay beside yours.
Oh how the tourist come,
How they tap on the glass, how the children stare.
The guide, he fingers at objects, once warm in your hand,
He indicates the stare, he guides to the detail,
He works a thin point to the intricacy you left.
My eyes ache to my side,
Together we sigh,
You're broken; wired hand in mine,
A machine or two for life.
Oh, what have you made my dear?
Interest still in dusty eyes,
You smile that familiar grin,
Obscured by spectacles that light the sky.
You made it, Oh you made it.
The great inventor, don't you know?
And now we lie in wire, we lie for custom come.