I can still hear the music
that drifted on the air
to pull her together, or break
or her apart on pages like these.
She’d pull up that journal and be gone
excepting only for the music that’d
waft toward me – she’s gone,
but that music hasn’t stopped, like
she’s still there, out of sight,
buried in her thoughts, and soon
she’ll emerge and the music’ll die
on the air and we’ll fall
back to wherever we’d dared
to be before.

“The Blade”

The blade reaches up
above the rooftops
to dawdle beneath
the clouds and smog
of a vast cityscape.

It hangs above my life
every life by a thread
of thinly woven white
little lies and half-truths
that mill us all to sleep.

Every now and then
I see the people stop
and glance at the blade
with renewed wonder
then start to carry on.

The same people stop
walking to question why
they wander weary streets
beneath the blood-bound
blade; then they forget.

“These Dark Walls”

These dark walls dash dreams
dealt to me by cold fate
through fear-filled fever-thoughts
by forcing me to stop and wait.

They block the bad and break
the good through an ill-thought need
left to bounce and bound within
my head and make me bleed.

Imagined needs now unheeded
by the softly scribbling pen
within the newly broken walls
never again to barrier-block
away the dreams of many men.

“The Wind”

Silent thought and song
reverberates around me.
Into words I walk.

Through thoughtless fancy
I sit amongst the white trees
while freedom flies from me.

In struggle, I step
above the tenuous treetops
to stop and see it all.

I raise my hands up
to feel the wind strike my palms.
I felt so free, then.

When will the wind cut
these old, rusted chains asunder
and carry me away?