“Cultist”

One day, we’ll worship rust
and marvel how it claimed
the world of industrious metal,
leaving nothing but slowing
reddening struts, half-hearted
angles reaching outward.

We’ll dive into the wrecks
looking for half-sparking wonders
that, when properly restored, gleam
into sputtering song or splitting
pictures of different worlds
and the faces of old Gods.

“The Valley”

We swept through the valley like wind
rustling over undergrowth and roots,
drinking our fill of air and life and love.

we found that grove of trees,
heard those voices older than words,
felt faces in the bark and salt
on the floor – blood was spilt
long ago, here, for Gods long gone.

once, they’d stood together
on roots drunk with life
once, they’d stood together
against a legion’s love
once, they’d lay together
amidst the burning trees.

from that grove a new emerges,
godless, born of salt and blood
and song: the song’s of bards
born before the wall could crumble.

we found that grove, and many others:
we found and we remember
what chants lived in these boughs,
and what God’s died in them.

“Well Meaning”

Eventually the songs dry out,
the nice words and good advice
disappear like the intentions
they once tried to express.

All the well-meaning wanderings
walk out of sight of the sky
sooner or later – it’ll hide behind
a cloud or concrete tomb.

It would be easy to lose faith
falling at the roadside discarding
everything you’d picked up
on the journey

“We’re all Broken People”

We’re all broken people
in our own way.

We all wear scars
either of our own forging
or forced on our fading
ill-watching ill-receiving flesh.

We all had lives
turned and twisted inside
out by what we couldn’t
control; some of us deserved it.

I don’t know where I stand
when weighted against you.

I only have what experience
has told me; that I am broken.

Who else drinks alone?

“A Voice Rings Out”

A voice rings out.

Through black I step and stop
waiting and wondering whether
tomorrow’ll lead to greater things
or draw me into the past.

In time I hear the words
i’d needed said since
this long laboured listless
fall from grace began.

The light seems brighter still
having felt the darkness
of a world uncaring
and a people untouched.

Such bleak barrens
was I imprisoned in,
till these words walked
me into our tomorrow.

Your voice rings out.

“Pieces of Broken Glass”

That was when I collected the pieces
of broken glass on the floor to tidy
up and file away the once clear hourglass
that had marked the loss of all the time
we had used for sketching and loving
and falling and hurting and hiding
amongst the thorns of the bush of roses.

We had spent so much time with the flowers
that we lost the ability to think
about all the other things we had to do
like work and walk and wander ageing streets
till we’ve the courage the storm the castle
then argue while trying to learn to share
all the paintings draped over the ramparts.

You sent me out to look for a name
so I broke into the library and read
through all the volumes of classics
to find which ones I liked but there were lots
to get through before I settled down on
naming our wonderful castle after
one of the old greats: I called it Virgil.

“Write from Heartbreak”

Writing is the creation of beauty,
of taking a moment and freezing it,
or a feeling, or a person: all things
can be rendered perfect in these few words.

When I write from heartbreak, I push away
the pain: each frozen sentence cuts it back
till through many fearful fights I am brought
by my hand, away from the edge.

One day, I will rest in the shade of trees
and talk and write of flowers and colours
while watching all my loves wander the world.
Until then, it is time for us to hurt.