To the ends of the universe and back

 

We can lay in the blossom.

Fields of dandy lions sauntering,

roaring along with the sound

of the rushing river and its

welcoming song.

We can sit in that loving gaze

where eyes can't move in case

it's all a mistake, a mirage in the air.

To even blink

could see

the image

fade.

 

We can sit

underneath waterfalls.

The spray teasing us

to look its way,

the majestic blue

of the glowing water tempting

us to let eyes stray,

but my eyes are all over you,

drinking in every heartbeat

as if it has never tasted

anything as delicious as your memories.

The rumbling grumble of coursing

liquid calls, but I'd be

unable to answer,

too entranced to chance a

glance away,

to ever miss a moment of this day.

 

We can feel the soft ground beneath.

The heat from our fiery embrace

radiating into the soil as we breathe.

The air of loves beauty bequeathed.

I never want to leave,

so perfect a scene,

But then, with you,

any view would be a dream,

I'd travel to the ends of the universe and back

on your wonderous light beams.

Sitting with you and your magic gleam.

 

We can build a home

from the buttercups and roses,

let the irises encircled us,

protecting from

the harshest winds unkind forces.

A neon soul riding my shadow,

we can levitate to the stars.

Hearts penetrating the clouds

so that the rains wash down,

the trees serving to

guide the rains to fill the river to bathe,

to wash away the dirt of the city grime.

And every night

under our blanket of leaves,

we can climb,

to watch the moon

and her mysterious shine.

 

 

Thanks for reading
Follow this link for more.
https://linktr.ee/Wordsandfluff

 
You can find my New books
"Tales from the 44A" and "Stations
here
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0DBKXPN13/
and here

https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B0DFV8N7XH

 

Please buy a copy if you can

it would really help me
continue to do this.

Peace, Love & Poetry
Kyle

Fruit

 

Strolling through the forest

with my journeyed pen,

searching this darkened

corner of my mind again,

for a tree that looks ready

to provide some fruit for me.

The fruit needs to be juicy.

So I can shake it free, to let it flow

across my lips, down to my charred heart.

My burning throat. Parched,

dry as a bone sat in the desert heat.

It needs to be replenished,

by something sweet. Relishing the feeling

as it cools my blistered lips.

 

Strolling through the forest

with my humble pen,

notepad open

but only empty pages showing.

No fruit could I spy,

so now I search low and high.

Maybe if I'm quiet inspiration

will just walk by.

I need to confess, I'm craving

Some sweetness to cut through

this bitter taste that coats my lips.

 

The fourth wall collapses in front of me,

as I scramble to rebuild, I attest that

the fruit is a metaphor for poetry,

and my brain is almost empty

needing to be refilled.

For my mind sits away somewhere.

Silent, except for the weeping

drifting across the stale air.

The words are hiding somewhere

behind the trees it seems.

 

But wait... Is that a noose hanging

from the nearby tree?

Am I walking into dangerous territory,

or are the branches just taunting me?

By talking about writing my poetry,

am I angering the words within?

Like a magician explaining his tricks,

or an author spoiling his own story.

 

If I entertain these thoughts,

will my voice fail me.

Will I clog up my throat,

on the skin of some rotten fruit,

jagged barbs lodging tightly?

What if my well ceases to refill?

How will I be able to stay healthy?

Is this the tree of mental blockage?

The one that bears the most tempting fruit,

but when you take a bite,

it devours you internally,

sapping your energy

and mentally entrapping you

mind left forever empty.

 

 

Thanks for reading
Follow this link for more.
https://linktr.ee/Wordsandfluff

 
You can find my New books
"Tales from the 44A" and "Stations
here
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0DBKXPN13/
and here

https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B0DFV8N7XH

 

Please buy a copy if you can

it would really help me
continue to do this.

Peace, Love & Poetry
Kyle

Ballroom of night

 

Sleeps by day,

finding even

the thinnest

strand of sunlight

in which to lay,

to recharge his

dwindling battery

for what lay in wait.

The mysterious

mister midnight

purrs away the remnants

of the night before.

 

In wavy dreams

he sees claws

ripping the night

in two.

Paws tipping cups

from the tables of destiny,

to the floors of dismay.

 

He sees

the watchman.

Bloodied, but unbeaten.

Sleep demons

begging for mercy.

Hears the howls

of the wolf singing

in the low hours.

A canine lullaby

to the moon.

Midnight wondering,

who is protecting

his dogged dreams?

As he bounds off

into the autumnal

leaf-fall strewn

ballroom of night.

 

A leap as he sneaks across

thin rickety fences,

walking the fine ledges,

the sleep encrusted

ridges of reality.

No barrier for his nimble feet,

nor enough to protect

against the swarm.

The infestation

of nightmares flooding in.

The storm bringing fear

to peaceful dreams.

He hisses an alarm,

to warn the watchman

that danger is beckoning,

before prowling off

in search of a snack.

 

 

Thanks for reading
Follow this link for more.
https://linktr.ee/Wordsandfluff

 
You can find my New books
"Tales from the 44A" and "Stations
here
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0DBKXPN13/
and here

https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B0DFV8N7XH

 

Please buy a copy if you can

it would really help me
continue to do this.

Peace, Love & Poetry
Kyle