It’s not a war to be won, but…

And then quite unlike the
Way in which she left,
The muse returned.

I knew I was in trouble first
When I woke to the
Thought of her
In green and navy pajamas,
Hair a golden mess,
Carrying a tray of tea and toast slices.

The dress that I saw,
A shimmering grey
A pale mint
That was no longer
Behind the shop glass but
Twirling around flower beds
Above a pair of bare feet,
Was a bad sign to be sure.

And it is now that I find myself
Lying awake deep into the night, Biting into my pillow
And cursing myself,
That I know the real battle
Has only just begun.

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If my heart had glass walls it would be a slaughterhouse

In the northern lands
Of ice and snow
Where the winds are born
You made your presence known
Among my thoughts.

Your eyes glowed behind my own,
Like shards of brilliant blue ice.
Your necklace strung with
Glimmering Germanic teeth.

‘You smile too much’
You stated solemnly,
Matter of fact.
‘I will take now what you owe me’

Toothless it seemed,
and thoughtless too,
I wandered for days,
In the heartland of the
Shiver and the prayer for
Safe return.

I gritted my blooded gums
And steeled my breath.
I feared we would not last the night.

Intolerance of Sound

I part my lips to speak
But my mouth is filled with sand
and newspaper clippings
detailing world disasters.

The only words that escape
Recount, unerring and emotionless,
A flood in Nepal.
An earthquake in Chile.
Car bombs in Paris and Berlin.
And I can’t open my mouth.
It won’t anymore.

I can no longer talk to people
that I meet at bus stops
or strolling through the park.
I can’t whistle at seabirds
Or whisper to the cat in the shadows
following me home at night.

I have become enveloped in
this great wave of silence.
At first it only lapped around my ankles
And all I was deafened to was
the fall of footsteps on concrete
Or crunching across frozen lawns
And flowerbeds laced with frost.

A bubble has formed around me
Of thick, sickly-sweet air
That only the odd hissing or clicking of a disapproving tongue seeps through.

And the world looks so different now;
More dark and grey and lonelier than before.
It seems that the sun’s rays are
actually more sound than light.
Maybe that’s why the nights were always so noiseless and still.
And maybe why your laughter
Used to seem like warm rays of sunshine
On a summer’s evening.

Filling in.

Black blank ink
trickles over a page of shapes,
filling holes, bridging gaps.
 but not in a ‘Christian Brotherhood’ sort of way.

This is the past-time,
for an hour or two,
of the soul-hungry individual.
With this filling in he blocks out everything,
for an hour or two.

Who needs faces with holes,
when you have words without.