Shrine.

You build your shrine to Time,
broken memories better left behind -
sacrificed for the future,
and cast aside.

Where once there laid a flame
there now lies embers.
And where once you said a name
your lips now stay sealed.
You used to speak in forevers
but Time you cannot tame.
It's no commodity to be dealt
nor is it swayed by wealth and fame.
For all that our riches can afford
Time will best us all the same.

So you build your shine to Time,
every paintstroke is a memory left behind -
sacrificed for the future,
and cast aside.

Tracks.

Stretching on for an eternity before me,
the road was pitch black beneath the growing clouds.
Once distant howling now grew closer every second
whilst the cold paralysed, and the touch of Winter dulled all sense.
The rails start to shake, as my whole body seems to tense.
The barriers are lowered, the heavens open up.
Thunder and rain strike from forgotten clouds so dark and dense.
The train passes for only a second
and then the rain relents.

Free.

How do you know that you are free
unless you break away from the mould;
do the unexpected,
consider the rejected,
and go against what you were told?
Doesn't incarceration work at its best
if you never discover the extent of its hold?

Dice.

"Roll up, roll up!
Roll the dice for your chance to win!"
He wears a suit to look professional,
but years of wear render the illusion thin.

"Whatever the result, you'll be a winner!
After all, there are no losers here!"
We know he's lying, but we'll play anyway.
It's not just a game of chance, but a game of fear.

"You'd be stupid not to play with these odds!
Just make sure you don't forget to pay!"
And there's the catch we'd been waiting for.
There's always one, no matter what they say.

"If you don't take the gamble, what exactly will you do?
Just imagine all of the things you might miss!"
It's an enticing, age old offer... And he knows it.
But the cost seems to go up with every new name on the list...

Shooting.

Gun shots and twisted screams.
Vibrant shades of red against the grey.
The stuff of nightmarish dreams
against the dull reality of day.
The smoke clears. The shooting halts.

You leap. You dash. You slip.

Hands racing for your pistol
the shooting starts again.
The concrete is warm beneath the sun.
You limp across it,
arm outstretched, shaking, with the gun.
You can make it, you can make it.
If anyone can - it's you - you're the one.

You leap. You dash. You fall.

Your head hits the concrete and it seems to burn.
Then the cold. The chilling, biting cold.
It seeps into your stomach,
and steals the very breath from your lungs.
The smoke clears. The shooting halts.

You gasp. You choke. You freeze.

Charge.

It's off to war we go, my lads,
it's off to war we go.
Which port of theirs we're headed for
I shan't pretend to know.
When we hit those foreign shores,
we'll wander into town -
and fill up local hovels
'till disease puts us underground!

It's off to war we go, my lads,
it's off to war we go.
We'll march shoulder to shoulder and
only ever so precisely slow.
For running is too demanding -
and charging such a bore.
I'm a gentleman in a gentleman's army
and I expect no less from the war!

It's off to war we go, my lads,
it's off to war we go.
I'll send you off without a clue but
you'll put on a hell of a show.
You'll all go down in history -
the stuff of legend and books.
Some of you might not return
but it can't be as grim as it looks!

It's off to war we go, my lads,
it's off to war we go.
I fear I may have blundered here
for numbers now seem low.
But I surely deserved my title -
I even paid for it myself.
And they can't take that away from me
for as long as I have my health!

Morality.

Morality isn't black and white:
it's different shades of grey.
For one man is always crushed
when another "saves the day".

Sunrise.

The colours in the skies fade to a darker shade,
a transition so blunt compared to
night's usual sharp blade.

Some hours pass and Darkness reigns -
clouds cease to move like starlit stains
and everything is dark and dull -
no moonlight now remains.
And the night time creatures prowl and skulk
where their prey lay, and Darkness reigns.

Alone, the street seems alien to me -
streetlights flicker and catch shop window reflections
but the lights fade too, slowly -
no streelight now remains.
And all the while I walk and muse
as prey I stand, where Darkness reigns.

The passage of time bears no surprise -
before too long appears sunrise
and everything is lit again -
marking night's demise.
In winding roads and alleys, Darkness remains
for once again, at this night's fall, Darkness reigns.

Looting.

Don't just bite the hand that feeds,
burn it to the ground.
Watch as the remains wither,
and slowly die.
In the name of "justice" -
acts none can justify.

Embers of unrest filter down
to the youth and set the night ablaze.
Torching homes, and stealing without shame.
Is this the generation you would want to raise?
Without respect, without consideration,
from the outside looking in we must seem a barbaric nation.
And in this dire time we begin to see the shift of blame -
since the Goverment's on holiday, with just debts beside its name.
While others claim the parents failed in the duty -
"How didn't you teach your son not to go out looting?"
And the original cries for justice seem ironic,
a protest hijacked - a crime spree with a noble cause stuck on it.

But the worst truth of all is the loss of identity -
invincible without names, they can do as they please.
As stupid as they are, they've brought this country to its knees.

Foundations.

Hands clasped together as if he's praying,
head tilted to the sky, his body now shaking.
Concrete towers surround him,
as his faith is rocked to its foundations.
And to console him, most just
offer their 'deepest' commiserations.
It might not be enough,
but sometimes it's all we can do.
When life doesn't make sense
you can't always expect words to.

Choice.

Our future is not a battle to be won -
it's a story to be written,
a tale to be spun.

A sense of destiny, like fear -
is one to which we choose to adhere.

(And too much of either is enough to
drive a man near to despair)

Look past shallow veils of 'fate' and fear -
the choice to choose was always here.

Ash.

The scolding hot ash gently falls from the sky.
Slowly, lava latches on to land.
You can feel the heat, but it doesn't burn.
The molten rock engulfs your feet,
it doesn't scold, but it should.
In the next five minutes you would have
had to swim, if you could.

Suddenly it stings a little.
A strange sensation where the liquid stone embraces.
Then the pain blinds the mind.
Docile expressions become twisted faces.

The now cooling ash gently falls from the sky.
Slowly, lava lies, and covers the land.
Stone cold, yet burning.

Oak.

He would sit by the Grand Oak tree for hours,
rain or shine, he would be there.
The end of every school day he'd brush past flowers -
pools of colour that would ripple in the wind,
just to indulge in the safety the Grand Oak offered.
The perfect escape from the dark and the unkind.
Nature embraced and nature was embraced,
"A problem is a problem no more only once faced" -
his father's words sat at the back of his mind
as he sat against the Grand Oak.

A fire branded these words to the forefront,
where the flowers were piles of ash before the Oak.
Ravaged by fire, no sign of leaves or life around,
once more a small figure was seen sat upon the ground.
Nature had taken but once before had embraced,
and it seemed to him its last act had been
saying these problems are problems best faced.

Dwell.

The Time Traveller, in theory, could
do all the things I know I would -
correct all of those mistakes from His past,
and cherish those moments He once thought would last.
It's easy to dwell upon such fantastical things,
itching a desire inflamed like lasting insect stings -
but I know that the The Time Traveller,
in theory, should
do all the things the same.
He could not sacrifice the rest
for his own personal gain.

Finnish.

I knew a Finnish girl once,
that would like to teach me words.
Pronunciation... difficult she'd often
break it into thirds.
But one she never taught me,
was how to say goodbye.
And when I asked her for her reason
she said -
"But goodbye, would be a lie."
Putting partly down to mis-translation
and partly down to alcohol -
it being Friday and her being of the teenage occupation...
Yet she repeated her words.
"But goodbye, would be a lie."
Now she's not one to make a mistake twice -
I don't know if I'd call her English good
but it was certainly nice and so
I asked her again to explain.
"Fate." She said - considering the mystery
her answer seemed plain,
but she left it that and the question
remained.

Not more than two years later I finally understood
when I saw in a hotel bar, the exact same Finnish girl
I'd once spoken to, from afar.
It all clicked - it all made sense.
"Goodbye, would be a lie"
because we would always end up here -
even if I'm not a fan of the divine -
this seemed odd. Undeniably so.
I built up the confidence to go over,
thinking of some cheesy line.
A rehash of a rehash from that one once
original time.
But in the final moments all that escaped my lungs,
Finnish I'd remembered now seemed like distant tongues.
As I sat in the chair, smile armed and ready.
My breath I had to steady.
It wasn't her sitting there.
But some other girl, with the same ribbons in her hair.
She looks up, confused at first.
But confusion gives way to curiosity
which works it's way into a smile.
And for what feels like a long while. I freeze.
It's easy, break it into thirds.
"It's kinda funny...
I once knew this Finnish girl
who liked to teach me words."

Start.

Well your mind's in the right place,
but is your heart?
Meaning to do well doesn't mean too much
if it's something you never start.

Paint.

It only took one hand
to knock the can
and make it fall.
A single line of red clings,
still wet upon the shadowed wall.

Spilt paint to some;
a catastrophe for others.

Still that red line clings,
silent and still, upon a matchstick hall -
and whilst being built upon the sands,
never were there any plans,
for what to do should the tide make it fall.

Beneath.

You think you understand,
but you have no idea -
if your eyes were to catch
sight of a murky lake,
you'd act as if it was clear.

"I can see the sands and
what lays upon it.
I can see the sands and
all that is beneath."
- but be careful,
for once said words
are weapons no man
can sheath.

Thin.

I'm not sure what I have faith in.
All I know
is that it's starting to wear thin.

Fingerprints.

A blast from the past
blows my finger prints away.
Identity theft -
"Please stop her before it's too late!"

A chest bereft of a heart
would never stop beating -
but only because it would never start.

We act like we don't make our own fate -
waiting for the reel to finally reach the good part.

We ignore our own consequences -
and hide behind rhyme or comedy.

But the truth is never far behind
and for that there is no remedy.

A blast from the past
blows my finger prints away.
But no matter what she may do
her prints will always stay.

Anger.

The dull light flickered,
and then conquered my desk.
I was not alone,
for I was not the one writing:
my rage gripped the pen so tight
as if to never let go.

Words crumbled into a scribble
as the pages started sliding;
a single sheet fell to the ground,
a single sheet fell gliding.

Your name clung to the page in bold
and caught my eye as it landed on a sculpture -
a parody of a lion, its mouth imitating biting...
But I had no time for that,
for I was not alone
and I was not the one writing.

Apocalyptic.

"The world is going to end next year!
and if not that year,
it'll definitely be the next year following."
And every time a doom-sayer appears
people get mouths for ears -
look at that the "truths" that they're swallowing.

It's like they want to believe that the world will end -
morbid curiosity taken way too far.
I almost hope that they're right, so I could see them fend
for themselves in the world they were wishing for.

Colour-Blind.

It's hard to imagine life without love;
like it is to imagine life without colour or sound -
where the same shade of sky,
would meet the same shade of ground.
But falling in love is like finding a new colour:
it keeps changing the picture
until the picture's not the same with any other.

Nuclear.

No one could have known
that the fire would burn so bright.
An all consuming wave of terror
branding hate into the night.
Piercing the veil of darkness,
a drab and desolate plane sees day.
So a violent sun followed a violent eve -
'Abandon hope all ye' who enter',
'lest you take note and leave.

Art.

The palette has lost its colour,
that once had shone its best.
The dancer only dares to move,
in none but the plainest of dress.

Photography in black and white,
is accepted as the norm -
only to be attempted at night,
and never in the warm.

The artist shunned;
the ignorant embraced,
numbers now become their fund.

And to an outsider it seems
that they must believe -

that there is no colour, in the Universe.

Signs.

Fate is not where my beliefs align,
because when you're looking for something,
it's not hard to find a sign.

Visionary.

A chilled air and still sand,
underline the moonlight waters.
And you see then, your place in the world;
as just one of many sons and daughters.

January.

Students reluctantly relent,
and assume their posts at school once more.
And despite the lack of Christmas snow,
the forecasters are predicting more.
And despite the cold and the VAT rising,
and despite the uni-fees and exams on the horizon...
A good New Year's resolution can put hope into your heart,
mine was to stop smoking, but for that
I'd have to start.