FORTY EIGHT : Never alone

Always,
amidst a brooding crowd
Not alone, never alone
not a single moment of solitary thought,
pestering for attention
In the plethora of ruins
Clustered as usual in lack of time.

I wonder often to this state
What mysteries lie in the sweet
essence of thinking alone?
In the infinite boundaries of thought.

Always amidst a brooding crowd
Not alone, never alone,
Not a single moment of solitary thought
As mind seeks release.

FORTY SEVEN : Untitled

How long can we hold
dreams that are ephemeral?

Cobwebs of fragile strings,
loaded down
by the frigid wetness of lives

One gust of wind,
And tumbling twisting rivers,
carry with them images
Scraped from two hearts
molten in the heat of two souls,
shaped into the name of our joy

How long can we talk?
In a screaming epoch?
Like crystalware amidst broken roofs,
And walls threaten imminent collapse.

Weighed and lofted into eternity,
and then gently settling amongst our daily routine,
Words that you said
and what ever I heard.

Together it may seem moments,
fleeting in formation of years
and heaps of syllables written in these books.

How long can we hold?
How long can we talk?
dreams, whisper.
Ever colliding into,
our definite daily lives.

FORTY SIX : Wasted Day

Along the day as it wasted
Coloured an intense grey;
Extended buildings into the horizons,
scrawny little fingers stratching the layer
Of stringy clouds
so the sun may drip through.

You and I
into a trance,
Like leaves caught in spinng dust
drifting between ruins
steering amongst rocks and dirt
Searching for love lost.

Delve not into explaining –
for what remains is what we have.

On wet deary days as this.
The warmth of tea,
in chipped cups
Is satisfying,
than the emanating revelation
From the corners of eyes.

I saw the day die,
into the weepy draw of night
And droplets abandon
their ritual descent
to shamelessly dance around mercury lamps

I saw you cry,
tears hidden by the dripping water

Only a torn ragged clouded sky remained,
testimony to the waste of another day.

FORTY FIVE : Memories

Years have walked by
dragging corpses of visions.
Entangled in knots of strings,
glistening in the bright lights
Like leftovers of some past,
clinging.

I saw you claw at them,
tearing skin in desperation,
to detatch,
Memories that have taken root.

White bone flashes
when all flesh withered
A torn tattered image floated in the air
listlessly

Dust swallowed you,
now your memories cling to my skin.

FORTY FOUR : The Song

There is this song in my head,
symphony of guitars,
and deep drums.
Stuck somewhere between yesterday,
and the early hours of today.

I cannot remember the tune
or the words.
Nor the place
where my senses picked up the smell
It is there like some old memory
permanently blurred,
faces that were fresh and tunes scrubbed.

I might dash into the song
while it whizzes past my ear.
And I hope it remembers me
and I recollect its face.

And both rejoice the wrinkles
grey hair and bald heads
and dance in circles
while the guitars and the drums,
sound familiar again.

There is this song in my head,
I hope I meet her again.