Ghosts

The style of the day,
Throws an image of you,
In the disguise of other woman,
What will it be like when you are gone.

Home

To hide where you know
You'll be found,
May serve you well,
Unless you forget
To let someone know
Where to find you,
Then this becomes home.

Becoming a Lighthouse

The stars are out there,

It is a fact,

You are just under six foot tall,

But your frame is strong,

Scoop them up,

Tell stories,

As you scatter them on the ground,

To light your way.

Leave a few behind you,

So as not to forget,

Picking as much as you need,

For the journey ahead.

It will be dark,

But no fear,

There will always be a star in the sky,

You forgot to bring.

And if you have some left,

When you reach your goal,

Put them in your mouth,

So you can be a beacon,

To others starting their paths,

Turn round to the four corners of the island,

Like a lighthouse,

Bringing safety to all.

Lonely Night

The car lights,

Turn blades of grass,

Into botanical shards of glass,

Shining like diamond studded spears,

As they turn on and off.

A black sky tinged orange,

By the branch haloed lamposts,

Holds up the trees,

In networks empty of birds,

With the cold onslaught of rain.

As if time had thrown them clear,

Of leafs and shoots,

Scaring them away,

To leave emptiness,

As the nights companion.

Dream Tongue

The taste of your tongue was like blood,

Like a tip on a battery,

And you said the cinema never shuts,

I woke up hardened,

And tried to find the position,

So I could sink back into it.

Like a live wire in the dark,

The memory of the taste of you,

Stays during the day.

The Paradox of Loss

The relief that loss is true,
Honest and natural,
Needs to be excercised in the moment,
Expressed as a thing.

To be still and at peace in the face of passing,
Knowing it could happen again but not recreating it,
Like questioning that putting the clocks back gains an hour
And forward loses one.

It is not a formula that has to be rehearsed,
It is a fact,
And the light of the sky bares witness.

While old woman take their pearls off at night for a quiet life.

A Pearl for Lucifer

If the devil created this song,
He must love god,
The aspirations of the fallen,
Destitute in muddy puddles.

We do not understand,
The way to redemtion,
The stones and rocks filling the sky,
Are but notes on a songsheet.

Answers are not expected,
Questions are thrown like pearled dew falling to the ground,
Arranged under autumnal leafs,
Where all humanity forrage like beasts with hands.

Trying to retrace a reflection from up above.

When the Sun Strikes

The sun is my father,

He bleeds brightly through the trees,

He is a circle of pure colour,

Casting leafy shadows on frosted glass.

His children have put him in the sky of heaven,

With his mother repitition watching him from the earths surface,

Knowing she will meet him in one of his cycles,

When they will be together again.

Knocking on the sun,

The fist opens up a palm,

And tools once noticed by the father,

Are put to good use.