waiting for dawn

the sun's gone

to another world

for a while

he will be here soon.

meanwhile,

soon

is stuck

in the innards

of a lostness,

writhing,

weeping,

for all that's lost

and burnt 

and buried.

he will be here soon.

he must.

as breath struggles

between walls

that must graze

and bleed

against bone,

to understand

the shape

of me

being born.

he will be here soon.

I know.

as the dark blue 

spills and streaks

across painted skins

that must be worn,

and the ground

remembers

her art

of waiting

for dawn,

in the quiet

of a pregnant dream.

what must die

today,
I feel that last strand
of silver
upon dark waters,
tug at my skin,
to the chalk-face
of the moon,
as she turns her other face
away
to the other side
I can never see

today,
I feel a stinging tug
in those grains
in every sinew,
as they go through the motions,
of another ordinary day,
just another shade of grey
on white

and the moon,
she smiles from afar,
the lover I've had for too long,
reminding me
of the ocean I'd left behind,
the ocean that must not die.

radical

there are no tethers now
to draw me back
to you,
to the pleasures
of this skin,
to the notes you write,
to the songs you sing
in the name of love,
to the sheer negligee of comfort
that old ways bring,

there are no walls now
to be whitewashed or razed,
or doors to be anointed
in the name of devotion,
no masks to don and flaunt,
in the name of beauty and play,
and no emotions to be crocheted
into works of art,
there are no ripples
that skirt the surface of things,
in the name of stillness,

there is only freedom
that spouts
from the fount of darkness,
where there is no thirst
or hunger,
only that one call
I must heed,
to go home,
now.

violin strings

flesh strung across rigid bones,
plucked, tweaked
and sandpapered
on a bow of pain,
song flows like blood,
dripping with the scent
of a hollow wilderness,
there is no balm
for what must be walked and lived
alone,
like violin strings.

on days like this,
I just want to disappear
from this skin,
to become the breath -
without form,
without colour,
without texture,
without fragrance,
without sound

I want to melt
into the void -
that faraway place
always close,
closing in,
strangling me
with its sinews,
ruthless,
fierce,
yet utterly kind,
like the vessel
that holds everything
and nothing
against its walls,

on days like this,
I must remember
how I came to be here
like this one breath -
forgotten,
misunderstood,
and exquisitely alone.