The trees scratch their own itches,
Unaware of the wind when he smiles,
Only when he sighs.
The clouds, they raise their eyebrows,
In front of the sun’s smirking countenance.
Spring previews full of warming praise
An expectant public in colourful days
Talk of the town and what was to follow
Was all about the circus of our friend Apollo.
Equal and opposing forces,
Does not mean that nothing moves.
If what’s caught between strength of horses,
Can’t take the stomping hoofs,
If it can’t take the stomping hoofs.
Thoughts know the roads around their home,
Often forgetting their offspring have flown,
To fledgling nests in infant trees
Blown back, shown back, homing on the breeze.
When drowning in a mull,
Frothing wash of cranial pressure,
Ideas lap against my skull,
Piggy backing their predecessors.
Striding into a swirl,
Lights socialise with one another,
The rooms arbitrary pearls,
With yesterday to smother.
There is a hole in my stomach,
That I just cant fill,
The flat soul it doth ache,
Is it better going up or downhill?
He pierced her world without knowledge,
Her eyes dropped into her heart.
Soul fire ignited but he brought no pledge,
Her passion, she knew, she cannot impart.
When one wants to flee,
Yet the feeling is happy
Two realities can occur,
Do you imply? Do I infer?
They were looking for something to do,
But opted for something to say,
Gossip was a communal patchwork quilt,
Handed round with glee and added to.
Temporary designers embellished.
They had no art direction.
it mattered not how it looked,
But whether you’d heard of it.
The stitches of separation
Weaved exaggeration with nonchalance
In-spite, in-spite, in spite.
He lives at his friend Victoria’s
And although a man of the people,
He sees everyone so briefly,
Perhaps, it’s he because gets bored of us.
Our poles moved closer together,
The wire between us slacked.
Electricity left the line,
Crows flapped into dots
It became too close to call.
Less is more, more or less,
Private thoughts in the officers mess.
Crossed lines but where’s the mesh?
Egos bump in this ageing cresh,
Too old for a prince to feel fresh.
Until something stirs in this pointless sesh.
That particular soul wrapped in that, that particular flesh,
I then just want to break the thresh-
Hold me, in this cold sea,
When you wave, I see,
That you’re ebb flows and your tidy.
And you’ll stand close even when you can’t,