Golden ground on which to walk Painfully perfect You shining tower, stretching the sky, spanning the spheres of paralysed years, clear of the clouds, a spire to pierce, the empirical vault, of fortified fears. You bore the tag of dominant collarings, yet restraint was distant from your grasp, awry the wash of unbalanced utterings, at your feet they clamber and clasp. Idol of Atlantis Years stained to my watch, etched in the salt, the greeting of our apocalypse, the shadows of your colours still tattoo my fins. Anchored by your pauses, your full stops rain like bullets, torpedoing the bubbles, and re-sealing opened wounds. I tuned in, counted your scales, and witnessed a way to swim seas of size and depth, beneath the surface I would watch you feed, transmogrifying to fit each pool. In each muddy trickle, you’d steal a strand of gold, your vault must be brimming by now, you could spin yourself an ocean, my Rumplestickleskin kin. I’ll knit me a boat, for when you burst, and the banks keeping you in will be my sails. On the great silver tsunami, that heralds your release, I’ll ride your wild white horses, and I too will lap, at the edge of a giant cluttered continent, still buried in the blue, ever rolling. Sunset Brow Tanned and tired, he reels them in, reaper of whispers, from the portal within, the eloquent fragments of chords so pure, now haunting his mantle of mis-spent allure. Flee from the fall, the earth sweeping girl, who draws the years closer, with each golden swirl, they once rode together, they now stand apart, on continents blazing, a trail from the heart. Gift wrapped the distance, skinned message in mud, ill preachings of brothers, lost blossom or bud, united as loners, divided as whole, so perfectly crystal, yet blurred by his goal. When will they join him, atop of his cloud, when will he warm them, in his great amber shroud? Granted a passage, carved through the skies, the wanderer wonders just where the time flies, delicately spread, seducing his grasp, now sealed in his history, a sheen on his past. Ice every sore In a frosted frame of stolen Monday you stood, acrest the palest folds of water, a salamander sequined of smoothest stone, crystal-boxing the mire. Barking in the new broad daylight, the piercing teeth of winter at my heels, the light through the cracks in your fingers, showcased white washed in my eyes. Etching the path on a dangerous track, so close to cloudy, the breath at your back, one faint slip and the falls so sweet, one thawed tongue and the freezing retreats. Tattoo your heathers on confessions sleeve, a yellow feather that comfort leaves, for the wheat that swayed in the new year’s breeze, was scythed down and savaged by the harvester’s tease. Passionate punches that destinies lay, on the broken winged whispers that dreams will betray, hoops for the maybes, the anglers of fate, in a golden arched doorway, another slammed gate. Wrestling with your shadow, in the twists of empty night, a sliver of splintered cold, lacerates the flight, you’re inside me now, and I know you cannot leave, as your kneads become frozen, in the mirrored looms they weave. The blinding of Narcissus Amidst the cellos that cushion, I clutch at the image of a golden butterfly net, to catch the notes unfolding, as they drift towards the silence. I pray for a mirror to wield in the rapture, behind which I’d hide, and embrace the quivers of each tiny wingbeat, as it strikes upon itself in an echo of reflection, touching without contact, caressing without care. To the crescendo of acoustic snowflakes, that guilt the final chord, gentle collisions, to soothe the sullen, and ease the flight, to submissions demise. A light in Tarka Grin droplets gliding outbound, from a green bag of rain, and condensating casually, on the glass of a stranger’s booth. She’s barely standing, above an underground platform, her teardrops in transit on a postcard home. His brakes were balding, as cow loans ride small, against the streams of the new world, that chime from the darkened rail, of a coathanger lain. They collide on the windshield, at a temporary drive-thru, connected by third party ice storms, that clap in the distance. Neither reach for the washers, as the speed sets them racing, upwards and away, almost near. Chasing the dew light, under cirrus so sonorous, counting betwixt rumbles, six snapshots to a splash, puddle booted follies. Troubadours as armchairs, Maccarana’s on the wharf, weave the looms and strum them, by the sunlight's harp, cradling the wake. The teacup rattles empty, from at that leaves from fall, a castle’s reflection in the waning flood, the twister’s hail that’s never wrung, as it spins and swirls the amazon dry. All that’s left are rainbows, that stir as tea spoons, the gold cream of all that is, and all that is sepia tinted in, the diurnal afterglow, of cappuccino futon. The spiral of lust I crave your every footprint, to take a cast and keep, A tread so elegant and timely, It's groove so neat and steep. I glove your every shadow, With mine from far behind, But you never see my dancing, You've a mermaid on your mind. Eternally chasing tails, Who we are is not enough, We only end up spinning, Down the spiral built of lust. She darts beneath the ocean, Around the shells that line his lair, In her hand-held silver mirror, She combs her sun-swept hair, She wants to court Poseidon, Reclined upon on his throne, But to try dents her reflection, And her songs find her alone. Poseidon seeks a goddess, Her own reign to bestow, High above the heaven's carpet, Where the dolphins never go, He's way too deep for Sainthood, Her heirs don't stoop so low, For she commands the elements, And he's caught in the flow. Eternally chasing their tails, Who they are is not enough, they merely end up sliding, Down the spiralled coils of lust. Do Omnipotents look for love, At the zenith of the chain? There's no one else above them, No untouchables to claim, Does lust reward the lonely, In some perverse symmetry? As I lay curled at the bottom, Does a goddess lust for me? Back