Burrow.

There's a small spot in the forest
where the thicket reigns as King.
A canopy of dying leaves ensures
no chance of sunshine seeping in.
Where the worms and beetles
burrow forever down to join their kin;
blissfully ignorant automatons,
free of will and all our sin.

All around, faint glows lie.
It draws those burrowing beasts
to trample, touch and pry.
No sooner did that faint glow emerge
than it had to say goodbye.
Amongst the forest thicket King,
the Fireflies go to die.

Painting.

Lights suspended from the ceiling come to life
and drape the creaking wooden floor
in a dull approximation of daylight.
The footsteps of tourists and
the ruffling of their brochures
do not quite drown out the
emphatic and fallacious
"ahhs" and "hmms",
as they pass painting and sculpture
with equal disinterest.

Some way down the line
a small congregation forms
that is silenced by adoration.
A golden, twirling frame keeps captive
the most gorgeous of women
upon the most fantastic landscape...
though she will never see such beauty.
Her eyes are painted in place upon the page,
to forever gaze beyond the frame.

Beasts.

Amidst the bustle of a Sunday car boot sale,
stands a man supported by an ageing cane.
The table before him is adorned with
all manner of statues and idols:
goblins and demons that mostly look the same.
The car in which he'd arrived had
tinted windows to keep curiosity outside -
to a world in which he'd often thought
all manner of wicked beasts reside.
It wasn't until he found his wife
draped over another man,
that he then realised:
the greatest evil lies inside.

Silence.

The moment transcends silence and slips into serenity.
A fisherman casts his line into the water
beating against the rocks.
The clouds above shed the water that binds them
and the gentle breeze gathers its forces
into a gust that makes theatre of golden locks.
Walking in our direction, a group of teenagers
wearing hoodies and their attitudes
stop to watch a bird fly overhead.
The fisherman checks that his watch
still ticks and tocks,
but hears distant teenage profanities instead.
I can barely feel the rain and cold
whilst your lips are between my own.
The world becomes but a distant distraction
and our surroundings cease to be.
The moment transcends silence
and slips into serenity.

Rose.

It was the height of Winter.
The cold soared and the wind whistled
as a dense darkness descended onto the city.
What little light the street lamps could afford
was spent upon the city square;
for a crowd of murmuring passers-by
had ceased to pass and gathered there.
The clouds too, seemed to slow -
as if the Heavens themselves should care.
A few now sat upon the snow,
but all stayed fixed as if by snare.
For stood where nothing ever grows -
a solitary Moscow rose.

Departure.

Blue skies turn to grey,
as the cold begins to bite.
The water across the bay
chops and turns with no respite.
A solitary ship leaves today
- maybe for ever more.
"Good times ahead", they say,
but I can't leave the shore.

Unforgettable.

I've been grappling with my words all month.

I've twisted phrases and fired metaphors,
searching for words of comfort and love.
They rolled pleasantly off of the tongue...
but ultimately were empty.

Nothing more than expressions of obligation,
lacking sentiment but carrying hyperbole aplenty.
Broken prose masquerading as poetry...
both verbose and regrettable.

So I'll go with words from a friend more eloquent than I:
"I need you to understand that you are entirely unforgettable."

Prisoner.

The flash of lightning turned her beauty to a silhouette,

and the consequent thunder conquered her voice

when the young Prisoner and the Dark Knight met.

She knelt before the Knight's steed

as the rider made his choice,

still sat upon the saddle watching the Prisoner beg and plead.

His ebony armour still carrying innocent blood,

he slowly lowered himself to the ground -

a scorched landscape drowned in mud.

The Knight raised his crimson sword above his head.

It sang to the storm-filled sky as it

swung towards the girl,

but it hit her chains instead.

Simmer.

A haunting shade of blue covers the dashboard
as the dull roar of the engine turns to a whimper.
Between specks of dirt and dust lies a road,
where the street lamps' pools of light can make thoughts linger.
One by one they flicker and fade,
submerging the road
into a desperate darkness that will fill your mind and slowly simmer.
The wheels start to turn as the brakes are released,
and the gap between you and the unknown becomes thinner.

Sepia.

Let the sepia tones
drown in a hundred shades of passion,

let the black and white fade
from pages filled with artless fashion,

let your own hue and verse
with time, be realised,

and iIlluminate a path where
once a darkness lied.

Ensnared.

The door was of a dark mahogany,
and only just accommodated my height.
I knocked once, then twice and again once more,
but despite persuasion, the door sat tight.
"I've got things to do, places to be" -
I reminded those that I could not see.
The room felt too enclosed -
I was trapped there. Ensnared.

To Hell with knocking.

I hit upon that dark mahogany
and felt splinters and Earth spit back at me.
Suddenly the walls were so immediate, as if
in this sombre system I was the centre of all gravity.
They did not just keep me in, but pushed and shoved.
The entire weight of the world resting on those wooden walls,
as if it all would collapse if just one of them falls.
It was not a room at all.
That was not a door to another side,
just the lid on a chamber where memories reside.
I hit out once, then twice, and again once more.
No use. I was buried - alive.

Muse.

Let me create a canvas,
so that I might capture your essence.
Let me put a pen to paper
so a reader can bask in your presence.
Let me play the game
for win or lose,
you'll stand alone -
my only muse.

Captain.

Furious skies of Olympic thunder
cast down a sheet of hail on the deck.
A cacophony of panic wrenches at the crew
as they adjust the bearing for skies a brighter blue.
"Captain! Captain! What left is there to do?"
He peers into the abyss below and declares:
"These waves you cannot ride nor tame,
this bullet must already know your name."
Adorned with clear blue shirt and hat
his voice can barely brave the biting wind -
as he tells them all - "I'm so sorry men,
but it seems we must go back."

Tomorrow.

For there to be a bright tomorrow
there needn't be a bright today.
We chain ourselves with iron sorrows -
harboured thoughts better kept at bay.