Please let me come out of the pollution - i said.
cleanse me,
let me look with the happiest eyes,
in clear colours.

My God, don't make me be a mist
I know I feel better this way
but the alternative life make me confused

I don't want to be like that

Help me,
help me find a way out
from the labyrinth of suffering,
because for the first time in my life
i want to spread my wings
and fly high,
without being drugged.

A restless mind
in the still of night  
burdens my heavy head
on the softest pillow.
As for sleep,
I’ll surrender the fight;  
Instead, I lie awake,  
embracing creativity
in the all-too-quiet,  
weaving my poetry.  

©️Lizzie Bevis

the mountains cry
as you weep for a love
you knew only in dreams
a mirage you concocted
a smokey appearance
you took for real life
the world can't touch what isn't
and you can't touch what is

No need for shallow chest breath
I am safe
I can breathe through my belly
Deep, becoming regular
Soothing, smoothing, slowing

No need for organised thought
I am shielded
I can relax into this place
Calm, becoming gentle
Softening, swaying, sliding

No need for clock watching
Dali time only
I can exist, chrono-sheltered
Now, becoming ageless  
Melting, muting, morphing
Here…

A door with round window
Mellowing to Renoir-lens
Glossy, smudgy, charm
Hobbit-style architecture
Familiar, shire-y, amiable
Lit warm and soft

A brown carpet bag
Caressing the rich pile
Sturdy, salvaged, true
Tardis-like inner structure
Dependable holder, infinite
For weights and woe

Smooth, even, stone stairs
Descending in timeworn strength
Secure, bendless, cool
Delivering, guiding journey-way
To ease and mend

I tender-lift my bag
Zip open for a prize
On every step

Each stair a healing game
The bag a hungry friend
To hold my heavy goods
And bare them strong for me
As I descend

Step one is for fear
Two for screaming
Three for ache
    with blurred-out meaning
Four for panic
Five dark-dread
    that slither-twists through sleep in bed
If guilt is six
Then shame is seven
    long blame-soaked school without a lesson
Eight for pleading
Nine for weeping
Ten for wounds, and burns, and bleeding

The bag now zipped, trapped weights and woe,
is set down gently, as I go
All grateful heart, and kindess-eyed
Door opens as
I walk outside

Ты ждешь окончания дня:
служебных часов учет,
как будто бы жизнь твоя
не с ними на вычет идёт.

А где подходящий сезон?
Немного ещё подождать,
мы слякоти марафон,
конечно, не будем считать.

Отнимем из жизни людей,
с которыми не срослось,
и те отпечатки дней,
где рядом быть довелось.

И вычтутся вместе с тем,
надежды, что не сбылись,
за вычетом этих проблем
не складывается жизнь.

Вот место, где был просчет,
простой арифметики сбой:
все то, что на вычет идет —
оказывается мной.

26.10.23