Inspiration.

There's something about you,

of that much I'm sure.

But I'm not sure what it is you do,

or if it's the way you talk,

or the way you move.

I'm not sure, but that's part of the magic -

when a magician reveals their tricks,

well then the act becomes tragic.

So I'm not sure how you inspire me,

but I don't care,

as long as you promise you won't move too far from there.

Improv.

A lonely island, lost at sea,

and time and space and history,

but time moves on,

and so should I -

onto a land, with a bluer sky.

Hour Glass.

You saw your cards,

and you still played your hand.

Now you're waiting for the chips

to fall like hour-glass sand.

Shellshocked,

you froze.

There was nothing you could do.

So you sat and watched,

and carried the game through.

Every second was an hour,

and each hour, a day,

as down your face the beads of sweat

began to pave their way.

The final chance to leave,

sinks in like the claws of fear,

You're numb to all but the call

that the dealer now shouts clear.

They all saw your cards,

those that played their hands,

and you sat and watched as your chips

fell, like the hour-glass sands.

The Beach.

When Winter comes, the beach is mine,

cold, grey, but quiet and divine.

Then Spring signals the end of Winter,

calming winds that once blew bitter.

And with Summer comes the tide of noise,

of tourists, children and their toys.

But when Autumn shows it's tired eyes,

the noise fades, replaced by cold grey skies.

Her Song.

She was brave, and in her own way, strong,

but the pressures of the world had been too much for far too long.

Never one easily defeated

she fought till courage stood depleted.

And that was the night she changed her song,

the notes were right,

but sounded far too wrong.

Revolver.

The embrace of death sat uncomfortably in my hand,

cold metal against the heat of the barrel,

a small slither of smoke winding upwards into sight -

a vein of grey into flawless moonlight.

The cylinder sat, one chamber empty,

whilst the bullets awaited in numbers plenty,

the engravings on the case of each,

resonated throughout the night,

in plain view, yet out of reach

the memory fades, but the word I can't forget,

engraved into the silver case, read the word - "regret."

Eh.

Loss in Vain

Leaden hands sink bullets into hearts,

drowning out the protests as the thunder starts.

And the lightning that stabs at the ground

imprints its image in their minds.

Loss in vain as veins are lost -

Bloodlines erased before their time.

The twisted fruits of twisted vine.