In the dead Monday of the mind

 

In that long dark

night-time of the soul

it can feel cold and bleak.

The sounds of the trees

creak and bend. Unwanted

thoughts descend

and icicles ride your cheek.

 

It can hurt

when loneliness sits on a bed

in the dead Monday of the mind.

It can be unkind. When your own

reflections strangle your imagination.

Leaving you frustrated.

Gasping,

grasping for a

stray moonbeam

to clasp on to.

 

During those lonesome times

the air can feel heavy

like a stack of paper bricks

piled precariously upon your chest.

You breathe less.

In case the motion brings the whole wall

Crashing, like an ocean wave against

the mental cliffside that you have climbed

for so many lives that your

fingertips bleed just at the thought.

 

But in the darkness,

behind the looming terror,

away from the static of the void,

there is magic.

It drifts gently around, sifting

through the stardust view,

like flour through fingertips.

If you can catch it,

you will feel the clouds lift,

and as they part

hope starts to sound like

a harp of happiness, and light

winds its way into your heart,

whilst fear scarpers away

back into the dark.

 

And in that long night-time

of the soul. It can feel cold

and bleak. But when you brush away

the creeping vines that cling

so tightly around your mind.

You sometimes see magic.

The nocturnal,

the blur of golden fur

flurrying against the black,

as the fleeting fox flies by, seeking scraps,

the way the stars blink back.

The way the moon smiles and sighs,

looking down with loving eyes,

and these times make the spirit fly.

Collapse

This place is collapsing

 

Piercing shards droping from the buildings

The walls crumbling awy, the ground a casum

Into witch our foughts are falling.

The sity of speling and gramma is braking,

The fowndatuns ar sincing.

Two many errors now its shayking.

 

The sky is ript, and down coms the rayn

Melting like the alphabet, into

The saging pits of hell. Are thy to blym?

Or isit tha noize that ekos in the nite

The hum  s bak

Mesing wiv our life's

 

Flee like the letas scrambling

The punct.ation warping

Flea like the birds who's wins are

Flapping.

They're are massages I  n th words

In the screems, Its like a bad dreem

that noiz feeds. All is falin aprt at the seems

Run.

Get owt

The time is

Now

I n the static. In the sound.

The hum is all around.

In the very letters

nd wrds we use al the tyme

So run.

Rn

Four yore lif.

Cosmic branches

 

I’ve always had

a strange pact with fate,

I've seen futures played out,

before I’ve entered their space.

Swaying cosmic branches

of the universal tree, and us

the leaves floating into dreams.

 

I’ve witnessed echoes

of future memories,

like looking

through whispers

of frosted glass,

into a place somewhere

just ajar to this reality.

A trace of a life yet to be.

A taste of fruit from

the celestial tree.

 

You see,

I’ve lived in dreams

and seen such sights,

I have flown with futures

most every night.

I've seen the paths diverge,

into branching lines,

And I saw you.

A vision of future

emerging into my world

one heartbeat at a time.

 

Long ago in a world where

the skies roared with promise,

I saw you. Standing,

a vision of truth,

I saw you standing,

before. I knew you,

and more, I held you

and we flew, I'm sure.

 

For we were there

in the dreamworld haze,

together,

sharing the same breath,

in the very same place

as when I first

envisioned your face.

And in an instant, I knew

that our two

stories were linked.

That our ink was

freshly being written

into each other's skin.

A tattoo of a story

that was yet to begin.

A tattoo of a tree

with a heart on its skin.

 

I could see the pen slowly moving,

Like phantom branches in the breeze,

but I couldn't reach out to guide,

I just have to let the universe

take the pen and write, hoping

upon hope that the story

Is kind.

 

For life has often taken me

where I need to be,

when I've needed to be there.

Not when I want to be there,

but when the universe has decided

that the next page is turning.

And the pen hangs in the air,

Ink dripping from the nib,

I see your name and mine,

and I do wonder

what will be the next line?

Will our branches reach out and entwine?