If sleep is death being shy,
Then a single bed is a shallow grave,
Then pillow talk is your final breath,
Then goodnight is goodbye.
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Fickle, fragile, fumbling
I shuffle between my fingers
While you craft a masterpiece
Of paper tears and skin.
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Months after escaping, it hit her —
realising is the hardest part.
It was the spring everyone went indoors,
turned the keys in their locks, and shut the sun out.
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In this post-post-post world
Where feelings have been eradicated
Through senseless repetition
Therapeutic(ally) adding prefix and suffix
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IF you can walk through crowds of jeering,
Hiding your shame with an indifferent air.
As harmless compliments give way to fearing,
For your life and that precious flower of despair.
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I met miss blackbird in june,
her dun dress feathered across her sepia nest
and her bleak eyes set in ochre fixtures,
staring black through me, through the hollowed fronds
of the sambucus tree,
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Hold, fleeting kestrel, hold the draft above the pines.
Inanimate adjuster, one who refines,
who is marvelled, whose great achieve-of is
Stillness. No other living Stillness is as fine
as the windhover’s, who halts
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I have lived no more than a child,
Been made a plaything of the fates
And choked with dreams
