Stories

 

As the summer sun folds herself

into the creases of the earth, the

crescent moon colludes with the

gothic canopy of stars, an awning of

swirling blues melding into the orange bloom

in mystical union. A majestic miracle of

cosmic momentum. A grand yawning

universal cathedral of space and time.

 

Twilight air swoons lovingly

across the station, lifting my gaze

in the heat haze tremble of anticipation.

The blistering heat dissipates, as the

whispering breeze gently blows in,

feeling magical against skin.

Easing the sunburnt concrete,

and lifting the litter away.

Clearing masks of yesterday.

To leave new storied pathways

for feet to tread. New stories for eyes to read.

 

The sky a burning fire set alight,

before simmering down, ashes

at the feet of the towering night.

A monument of time, aeons blink

in distant starlight. As praying eyes

whisper silently, to their moonlight guide.

A gentle hand held to kicking belly,

feeling life growing inside of them,

soon to arrive. A new story soon to write.

 

And I see her smile

as the sky answers her back

with a wink of light.

 

The fluorescent flaying of station light,

severs the view for a second or two,

before a shadow dances across the concrete,

a silhouette against the ancient silver moon

rushing past to find a seat on the number 44.

To find their way home soon.

A story of brief interludes,

a solitary view of life becoming a

shared story between two.

 

Laughter sings through the songs playing

in my ears, as the twilight-years trio arrive,

same time every night, silver hair glistening

diamond-like under fluorescent light.

A risqué joke and a flirtatious smile,

a glint in wise eyes, and as the bus arrives

they disappear into the night.

Stories of life lived to the heights.

 

And I glance back at the darkening sky.

A glint of starlight falls across my eyes.

A wish drifting like cosmic butterflies.

A spoken word left sat upon the seat beside.

Listening to the hum of traffic,

under the songs blaring through my head,

and I think, I’ll catch a later bus instead,

life is too beautiful to waste cooped up,

and I have more stories to write.

Beauty

 

If you could hear

the whispers in my head

you wouldn’t try to put me down,

for your words couldn’t ever be 

heard above their sound of

my own silent screams shouting,

louder than any words

you can dream to throw about.

 

And here's the thing,

I won't bow,

not even to

my own screaming.

 

I walk on and I stand proud,

because no matter how loud,

my own promises

only ever sing louder.

The ones I made when

at death’s door,

to always care for me,

to never cower,

and to share love

with those that

I believe are true.

 

I believe in beauty,

not the kind

that sits pretty for the eye,

but the kind that lives inside.

The sort that grows

like a flower blooming bright.

The sort that holds tight

through the storm

and still smiles

at every thunderstrike,

for the awesome sight

is dazzling their eyes.

 

And even on my darkest nights,

when I could cry

at the way the world hurts,

I still sing loud,

because there is

always beauty around.

And I want her to hear my voice

saying I see you, and I’m proud.

Teardrop sunsets

 

I left my heart

alone on a

train carriage,

destined for nowhere.

A place where hope can't

get hold and pull it apart.

A long way from home

 

A teardrop sunset falls

heavy upon the seat beside me.

 

I waved

as the train disappeared

into the distant haze,

I was unfazed.

What use is a heart,

when love

only leads to pain anyway?

When the tracks

all converge

into one lost town

where desolate tears

are spent, like copper pennies

poured into stagnant fountains.

 

I left my heart

in a runaway fantasy.

I'd let it depart

and I'd find a new one

dawning inside of me,

like the newborn sun forming above.

This was what hope had taught me.

That tomorrow, a brighter day

could greet and hold onto me.

Fresh and clean.

Unbruised by life,

untarnished by loves

gone by.

But time cycles on.

 

And loneliness

sits upon a bench

surrounded by concrete.

An island of solitude

in a lament spoken

to the breeze. A teardrop

sunset once again greeting me

in shadow symmetry.

 

But now the sky

pours a road in the

solid sunlight.

A passage

through the long grass,

and I can walk at last.

 

And the past

no longer stains

the future.

No longer a commuter

searching for another

lost passenger,

but the driver

of my destiny,

not tied to tracks.

The destination open

and I ride with

the wind in my hair.