Cold Morning

A fragrance gone, faded,

Like the dewy scent on morning grass

As the sun lifts.


The day stirs,

A blistering break of dawn;

The mountains, blackened, bow down;

Watchful beings on thrones of stone.


I tread,

Bitterly cold – no jacket.

Hands blue,

Blotchy – no food.


Air empty


An echoed wood of forest;

The dampness.


I try to rearrange the things,

Tramp along the dirt.

I like the cold, the morning,


The world is mine;

Untouched by man.



I like the cold;

A slap, a burn.

To remind me of who I am in turn.



Caustic mornings awaken

As I awaken

My eyes opening like the dawn on crested hills.


Loosely forgotten thoughts hover

Instinct; I’m free still,

As I register the cold air

Contrasted with warmth of blankets

And comfort, warmth, safety,

A secret away from the world.


But I have to get up.

Is There Energy in an Empty Graveyard?

Is there energy in an empty graveyard,

As the stillness settles upon the night?

A darkness echoes, a small wind whispers;

The aching moon burns boney white.


Do pulses reach through levels of Earth,

Soil on soil, and then hit stone?

Do the shadows of life and souls still whisper

Gently, through the beating unknown?


Is there energy in an empty graveyard,

Or are those corpses simply gone?

Their lives lost from the world forever,

Their thoughts dissolved, their passage on.


Daughter who abates it all,

I form.

My intuition of vast gains

Showing ruptured minds;

My generation.


The last stability has fallen;


My loss,

My gone.

Like nothing and everything all at once.






I long ago listened to vital stories.

In the depths of summer’s eves,

Buried times and buried spaces,

Lost beneath my grisly age.


Stories of my future hence,

The words of a life to lead,

The thoughts I had of all my goals,

Etched, like crvings, in my flesh.


It is unpredicatable.

Realities. Reasons. People.

Stories were made by makers;

My story was made by passage.


A dappled disarray

Of nothingness.

Not a reason or a hint,

Just unsigned words.

Writer’s Block

I never knew of it,

That you have to accept

Unplanned, ill-financed.

Dreaded capital,

Dreaded outreach.

Dreaded moments I lost encased

In darkness,

Though the sun beats down in billowing flows

Of radiation

And explanation.


And you pick at your brain,

You pick at your flesh

For inspiration.

Something is wrong

Something is wronf.

Why is my head so empty, so dark.

Black holes of mass sucking ,e

Through to nowhere lands;

To my lost.

My emptiness.

My gone.


So you wander the world, you do.

A beckoned speck on gaudy lands,

A freedom in your last regret,

Twisting hands and flowing sands.


With doubt about the shouting tide,

A chasm deep and just as wide

A howling and a force of frame,

A longing to be there again.


Such times that seep.

An overwrought world of great,

A debating hand, spread and lost;

Knowing it’s too late.


I beg of you, my aching wave,

A motion in the deepest woe

How far along the death I crave.

Let me know; I feel it so.

In Your Head

You were in your head so long.

And now you surface;

From hibernation, stagnation.


You listened so often to those words that hurt,

A brain in overdrive – a lying voice

Which twisted your views

Into caricatures,


Robbed you of your evavescene.


Haunt me. It haunts me,

Those times I listened to it.

How it used to shout louder,

Deafening, harsh.

I knew it had me.

Influenced. Limp.


But now.

An ocean blue and clear beckons

To plunge, finally unchained.

Don’t listen. Anymore.


The Lost Girl

Travel has always been in my veins. Ever since I gazed upon the magnificence of a world map, I have wanted to travel the world, exploring each and every exquisite corner.

But alas, life got in the way of my grand plans to globetrot. I did manage to travel a bit over the last couple of years as a student (more of that in a later post…), but never as long or as uninhibited as I would like to.

Now, however, it’s a different ball game; one physics degree under the belt to keep the parents happy (never do it; it’ll make you seem like a bore as soon as it’s mentioned at any dinner party and I literally almost killed myself in the process), semi-sufficient funds in the bank after several months of hard labour in a London department store (over Christmas at all times!) and all the specified…

View original post 27 more words