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There is an old tree That stands on the lawn. Its branches are bare And its bark is torn. The blossoming violets In a circle quite small. They circle the tree, The tree that's so tall.
The pieces of a crumbling ruin. Tumbling down to a field of grass. Pebbles and rocks, a shadow of hail. Splintered wood and shattered glass. A gradual collapse of weathered walls.
I'm standing by the willow With no love in my heart. The rain is beating down, Lightning tears the sky apart. I'm standing by the willow With no joy in my head.
(Rewritten version of The Angel). They see me in the moonlight. They see me in the sun. I scare them at twilight. But my job is never done. They see me by the graves now. They see me, I'm so old.
I do love the moon. But the night falls too soon. Yes I love its silver beams on the sand dune. But painful memories start hunting my cocoon. When the night falls, the house goes quiet.
#sundayrepost He stood at the edge of the garden and surveyed the sacred land. His worn out boots were deep in weeds, a worn out hoe in his hand.
There's nothing left. Plain white-washed walls. Just a lonely echo. And deserted halls. The colour has faded. Only stained hearts remain. Forever waiting. To be cleansed by the rain.
The rain, it pours with an overbearing sigh As the clouds continue to darken the sky How can a day, previously so bright End up like this, with traces of ice.
Hot tears. On a. cold face. Left to. run down. That narrow. place. The wind howls. And. Darkness. Scowls. The whistling. Emptiness. Of orange. glittering. Reflections. On wet ground. Now so wet.
I lay on my back atop the rambling hill, my vision clouded by a deep and alluring blue whilst the sun beat down on me, heating my damp skin.
Every day, he sits at the bar A tankard of bitter glued to his palm, He wears his best shirt in the absence of occasion Talks to the hikers, but with the absence of conversation When it’s quiet in...
Shattered skylines. Broken things. A bursting sunset. And painted wings. As leaves fall. The pain declines. Like the ebb and flow. Of the ever changing tides. A music box. That no longer plays.
I'm done being all on my own, I dreamed a dream a while ago that my heart was full of love. All I need is one day more, to have the time to hear the people sing.
Remember when we used to hold hands. Slowly walking down the street. Listening to bands. Saying Hi to people we'd meet. Remember how it used to feel. I thought that we felt the same.
I search in the lambent lights of the city, the flames of the reticent; secret, living. Awake in their vague yet vibrant visions, cast from the lustre of their beginning.
I couldn't seem to rhyme it, so I did free-verse which I can't quite DO. I walked again into the mist Where time has no meaning And tears no end.
Solitaire, I'm playing solitaire again today, A few pegs left, still in the game, It's an old set, on it's last legs, But I like things that stay the same.
Dusting all her yesterdays She keeps them to herself There's no-one left to share The years she keeps upon the shelf An empty whiskey bottle Is the only sign of life She's worn around the edges Never...
(from Ode to Melancholy). There is a world of silver sunsets. And the darkest nights. It is a place where one forgets. And the truth is hidden by a shadow of lights. Upon the grave in midnight glow.
Different letters. Different years. Same place. Same tears. But I do not hurt. I don't get cold. I do not feel. It's getting old. Special day. Still the same. "Thank you, Glad you came".
The rain seems to fall,. But I don't seem to notice,. Growing in depression,. Drifting away like a lost lotus,. The rain seems to pour,. But I couldn't give a care,. I've lost my faith and hope,.
I spent my days In a summer haze No looking forward No looking back But like all things It ended Quick enough.
I sit upon my windowsill. Watching the world go by. Children rolling past on scooters. Husbands strolling by with wives. Stride for stride and hand in hand. This world belongs to them.
The tiny tin soldier, With the crystal glass heart, Made from rust and ancient cogs, He would not wear apart.