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Then the rust set in, and it went a bit mad, kept the spiders company, They were the only friends it had.

In this dream, I am living on the ground floor apartment, with a laneway behind the patio and trees. I hear sirens, loud radios, and I move my patio curtains aside to see cop cars and red lights filling the alleyway. Many people walking back and forth. I see many officers in plain clothing coming somehow through the bushes to the laneway that connects the ground floor units.. all holding what looks like money. One of the female cops (stylish looking TV cop type of woman) c

I’m a kaleidoscope in your hands, Turn me once—I don’t align. Turn me twice—I almost fit, you want answers, I want why.

And I am only partly here, half in, half disappeared.

Your tattoos hold experience skin etched with blood and fire.

Gold in the laughter, silver in the scars, woven in the tapestry of who we are.

Song Lyric, reworked from poem: Farewell to Winter

That’s the dream killer, the scene stealer,The thing that snuffs your spark,The voice that whispers nothing,And drags you back into the dark.

You are silk that turns in circles round your form, around your soul. The fabric moves, a secret rhythm, a song to make me whole.

You travel in a maze around my heart, Down paths I’ll never find.

I am superfluous in every way, Talking in overtones of color and decay.

You’d quote Bukowski by the bottle, Talk of love and crucifixion,

You leave your marks where shadows hide, I wear them quiet, side by side.

Dance with me, in the afterglow, Where the thunder hums and the dark things grow.

A fine gold thread appeared in my window, dangling from an old piece of plaster outside. It waved beautifully and wistfully, teasing of brighter futures and glittering hope.   I walked towards to hold it and found it was nothing more than a wayward beam of light; a sliver caught between sunset and clouds, dancing with wind.   The illusion is apt, I thought. Fitting, even.  The light entwined itself over my hands, and I allowed myself to feel gilded and enriched.  Movies are

You mock me with shadow puppets cast against dark stone.

Warm, misty mornings; tendrils of mystery and beauty, remind me that, like the disolving wisps, we are nothing more than a dew drop on a morning leaf -
tenuous in our grip and forever fleeting.

This is for you. Who cared enough to ask. who thinks to visit, who simply says hello.

The Hollow Vale; a kingdom of ornate towers and perfumed wind, now gnawed to ruin by time and memory. The arches had collapsed. The wells whispered nothing from their empty depth

I found an old jewellery box. Ornate in design, splintered in parts, with dust etched into the very soul of it. The trinkets inside...