Magic of touch

 

The magic of contact.

An arm around the waist,

a gentle stroke

across your wrist,

a delicate kiss from fingertips

upon skin.

The way a hug feels like bliss

and that nothing could ever hurt again.

 

It’s something

we neglect,

the gentle touch,

the way two arms

can interlock,

helping us to trust

that your feet wont

suddenly

stop

in shock

and forget how

to stand

on the spot

suddenly falling,

flailing

into

the hole that

has opened up.

 

The magic touch.

Just a light breath on a papyrus page,

a feather against the grain,

a slight fleeting

moment of contact, which eases

the internal acid rain.

Stops the conflict in the brain,

to remind that being human

is all about play and love conquers pain.

 

The magic of a finger drawing

hearts upon your canvas,

the way every delicate line

lingers before fading

in a momentary connection

to the universal mind.

The way a hand holding tight,

feels divine,

making this world feel

less of an ordeal

and more like

your head has taken flight

into a sky full of dreams.

 

The magic of touch,

a hug holding you like

a warming blanket of love.

The way we connect like jigsaw pieces 

so perfectly linked.

I thank the universe above

and the world all around

for those that held me

when I was lost on a cloud.

When I felt the world crumbling

as the walls all started to fall down,

holding me tight

on those darkened nights.

Wishing well

 

Been walking around with a broken heart

for some time, now the ticking in his chest

has slowed and the bells are starting to chime.

staring out at the wilderness.

seeing only bleak mists staring back at him.

A shroud of despair descends

through the stormy skies.

Alone in the middle grounds he stands,

Frozen. Awaiting a lightning strike.

 

It’s like a flatlining of hope, where once

its peaks rose and fell, now they just follow

the line of least resistance, of emptiness,

numb to the currents jolting through existence.

summoned to see the fading view.

And all he sees is nothing.

Just the shrill ringing sounds,

and a bleakness creeping in,

like the angels of hell, screeching and wailing

in the throes of anarchy.

 

All he can do is throw his broken heart

in a wishing well in some last remaining

shred of hope to bring an end to the agony.

So, he casts it down.

 

The old brick well stands alone

in the wilderness.

A solitary teardrop of rain

swells from the heavens

and falls.

Inching

ever

closer

to

its

destination.

 

Splash.

 

A dull, rhythmic thud.

Duh, duh. Duh, duh.

Duh, duh. Duh, duh.

Echoes slowly rising through the mist.

A scream released. A primal yell.

A plea to the stars to hear this pain,

a plea to the moon, light the path again.

 

As another teardrop of rain falls

and hits the man, bent double on his knees,

he hears the dull thud in his chest

Start to quicken. He stands.

Opens eyes to blinding sunrays

and walks head held high.

For the first time in immeasurable days

A sky full of blue

 

The bromide winter whispers

try to deceive the creative mind,

dulling the lust to let thoughts burst free,

but her ship is afloat, sailing

through storms of hope across

these vast open seas.

The sublime rains wash clean

the overbearing stench from the deck,

leaving a glistening surface,

where the sunlight collects

in pools,

where magic reflects

the wonder inside - A ship of fools

trying to hide from these waters,

when, to let them soak you,

would be

divine.

 

But me,

I’m up on deck.

Laying

as the swaying

ship lurches

To and fro. 

letting

every speck

of rain touch

my skin,

letting the water

pool below.

Naked

I give all of myself

to the rain.

Not feeling the chill, or the

pain

of ridicule.

I can fear nothing,

as it

soaks in

through my pores

and into my veins.

So that

once I reach

those gorgeous shores.

I will be refreshed

and ready to shine again.

 

And on the horizon,

a sky full of blue.

The colour of trust, infinity, serenity,

and the colour of you, soon,

spring rebirth brings life anew

to the outpouring of imagination

that sit at the destination

just over the waves.

Glistening like treasure as the

clouds dissipate and the sunlight

breaks the old into fragments of new.