Silently they come from over the hill
Complex and challenging when eyes are still
Love, ******, horror and more
Exploding in your head through the minds open door
Some urge you awake til you're frightened, with pounding heart
Whilst others happily gain interest right from the start
Locked up images, your thoughts and desires
Being pulled along by the minds little wires
Exciting adventures and dangerous deeds
Or scary images from the cranium seeds
As day break prevails and light kills the dark
The sleeping tales still seem so real, so clear and so stark
They're laid bare to rest in the vault in your head
Ready for the night when your head hits the bed

Much adored is the dead poet

Within the glass case
Away from dirt
Amongst the books pressed
Rests his heart

Such was the silence he dreamed
When words streamed
Like riverine flow
In all might arose
Seeking the order in chaos

Orderly bound now his name
In peace standing behind wooden frame
Yet with the ceaseless commotion of wait...

Much adored rests the dead poet.

I'm dying,
Feeling the comforting cloud of death
doing flip-flops through my strain.
Energy bursts are useless attempts
     at frosting flakes of panic and regrets.
Slipping.
Forgetting.
Curt instructions from a dangerous smile.

Cloud of death. Your mysterious tension
        caresses every
        blood-vein in my body.
My lungs restrict,
my lungs constrict.
Empty shallow boxes
      filled with the nothing of
        resistance.

Can’t anyone see? Does anybody know?

Does
    anybody
     have the
      slightest idea
       of just how
        tiresome
         paying
          attention
           can be?

So let me go. So leave me alone.
Let the fibres of believing unravel,
        slip apart
        like
        cracked glass
          about to
          shatter.
I'm hurting.
Disillusioned membranes zoning into silence.
The self-illusion so palpable and strong.
Hope
      is for people
             who have
                   flowers to grow.

Today I battle
my own negativity
the dark side of
my moon
glowing cold
in the sear
of burns
those little
inflamed live
scars receiving
the salt
of tears
that I gather
in opaque blue
and indigo-hues
in the privacy
of the soft spaces
in the drawers
of my heart
little aches
that grow
as the hours
get smaller
little quakes
on low
in emotions'
faded squalor
and as I plunge
over that
spiritual abyss
draw in my
knees, let the
winds brush
my lips
in a mocking
lovers'  kiss
and try to catch
that beating mass
as it bursts
right through
my chest,
in broken slips
of shattered
glass
I tell myself
in whispers
"No, warrioress!
This time
you will not
be destroyed"
and I fling
my heart,
so bruised
into the
burning,
golden
void

Stung by an angling fad
He took a fishing rod
And sallied onto the nearby stream
That leaped down a rocky shelf
Forming small cascades
But running down into plain ground
With a placid demure face
Uttering soft murmurs sweet

Aiming at the darting Trout
That made the still waters into spiraling whirls
He swished the rod in the air
With the alacrity of a practiced bowler

Looking at the line sinking low
He waited for the fish to nibble at the bait
Meanwhile, inhaling the salubrious air
And watching the limpid movement of the stream

As the hook line went taut in his grip
Hopefully he pulled it up

But alas! With no ***** to boast!

Patiently sat he there for hours
Like a sculptured God upon a rock
Oh! It requires immense patience
With adroitness to boot
To be an angler, no doubt
That sure is a sedate man’s pursuit!

Angling rarely fetches any major luck
Except now and then a fresh fish upon one’s plate

Yet following one’s heart’s pursuit
Is worth more than all tangible reward it brings!

A beautiful rose grows on a grave
It is cared for by the caring
Watered by heaven
Raised by the sun
Given rest by the Autumn
Reborn by the spring
Under in the rich earth
The life that is just sleeping
Just waiting
Offers life into its roots