Zmiana sposobu prezentacji
i have moved over to a new site with a new profile
if you would like to continue to follow my new work, you can do so here:
http://www.writerscafe.org/MusoFreak200
Seeds Planted in our first interaction;
Seeds of new emotion and affection;
Were placed deep within my chest cavity;
A new source of poetic inspiration;
Hidden in my heart of dissociation;
Just like an unknown time-bomb of beauty;
It blossoms, my heart stolen in your possession;
For once it's not just manipulation;
Flowering into a bed of roses;
This was going to be a dedication;
Of my admiration and affection;
But it all went wrong before I could finish;
I thought you could repair the damaged section;
To re-animate my self appreciation;
The blossomed roses begin to wilter;
Petals black with discolouration;
But for one I perform a resurrection;
To remind myself why I cannot love;
Black, billowing out of the exhaust pipe;
To join the smog, and the smells so damn ripe;
Flowing free form, as I watch from my stop;
Shaking my dark facial features, Why oh Why;
Coughing in this polluted Sky, I Sigh;
Oh I wonder and I ponder today;
Hear, Hear the complaints on the radio;
Climate Change you know, Climate Changed, Yeah So?;
All we do is talk, There's no active change;
Whining and crying of politicians;
Puffs of dense dark smoke, just like magicians;
Sickened, am I the only one who cares?
CRASH!
CRASH!
WHOOSH!
A young man collapses on a golden sandy slope as
sparkling waves tumble onto the shore before dragging themselves back out.
CRASH!
CRASH!
WHOOSH!
The waves continue.
As the blazing sunlight breaks through the ocean,
it greets the young man by bathing him in warm rays of light. It illuminates
his dark, bold facial features and his long and unkempt locks of dirty matted
dark hair. This daily greeting of celestial beauty goes unnoticed by all,
excepting the young man, whose daily ritual is to
visit the rising sun.
The icy water slides like a loving sheet of liquid
cloth over his bare feet, burnt and broken-skinned from the wear and tear of
daily life. The salty water feels pleasantly refreshing as it rushes over his
upper legs, before scurrying away, back to the ocean where it dwells with unknown
water creatures and surfers.
The young man can almost taste the salty air and
as it tantalises his senses, he pulls from around his neck a chain, bland and
dull in the orange light of the rising sun and unable to shine because of its tarnished
and seemingly-unloved status. Dangling from the grey chain is a pendant of
memories heavy with the vulnerablity and one-time camaraderie between the young
man and the person hidden behind the cover of the camouflaging (...)
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The Butterfly (Don't Die My Butterfly)
With wings that seem to sparkle like the night sky;
Who's purpose seems to be float, glide and fly;
It tears my heart to know you are so rare;
Or that in adulthood you go unnoticed;
With technicolour wings of the dearest;
For you life is full of beauty and simplicity.
