Of The Soul

Her eyes
take in the breath of my heart…
with each beat –
and the clouds weep…
when embraced,
as does anger
and love –
these human acts
convulsed by change
correlated
by the bounty of truth
or the vision born…
by the old
seen by the tribes of youth –
and in the end
the roses still grow
and so does war
poverty
and man –
but heal the soul
to watch the action…
of the power of one – grow.

Her eyes
take in the breath of my heart…
with each beat –
as she cast a vote
which tells the truth…
of good and bad –
and of the soul.

False Hope

She lives…
inside his head
like a polite memory
which weeps
into his soul –
buried deep
this greyed out past…
with only
the remnants of ruins
which remain –
a false oasis
is a bleak reality
or perhaps
a parched drink…
of false hope.

 

 

Like A Mother

Mental rips,

like folded paper

creases, wearing on the soul -

a forgiveness sot

or perhaps...

a broken sword

or maybe a mother...

the person who ask..... always

if you’re alright.

 

But then you think...

the conscious

is like a good heart -

but -  a bad liar.

Then tears like ink

have dried

and their shadows
show the stains...
to tell a story
where the heart remains.
 
Then view these smudges

as if they were darkness -

and not the light...

one wishes to see.

Like a mother...

the person who ask..... always
if you’re alright.

Tranquility

Each breath
draws in ink
swirling through his lungs
latching onto words,
then letters
dribble… past his lips –
but some days….
it’s just moments
of acrid, dark blue –
expelled hypocrisy,
which stains.

Closed eyes
to breathe again
and find… a path to walk –
brush aside, the cages held
these saddled, barriers of mind –
stride towards the golden hues
purples, yellows, oranges…
and the powdered blues.

Breathe again,
draw-in the ink –
opening your eyes… 
not far off, you see
the distant dreams
and tranquility…
waiting –
standing at the end.

Of Destitute

She watches –
and notes…
that he doesn’t fit
within the landscape –
as leafy thoughts escape
discolour….. fade
to strip the vines
of mind and life –
as he joins the quilted
desperate warmth
of destitute
and strife.

When Life Begins

I enjoy the colour black
which shows
the contrails ==== of time –
a dash of shadow
then a space –
but as dark
as dark is…
then the light of light
begins
to show the close-up
seen or been
and then
that’s when life begins.

 

 

A Tug

Touch my heart –
to look at yourself
in the hope
to feel the beat…
once cocooned.

An anchor released
can feel the sea –
a tug - - -
which draws you near –
or a detachment
drowned in tears.