Dancing with darkness

I stepped into the shadows,
One forward step, one side step,
One back step and started over again,
Closing my feet as I tippled down,
Lock stepping my way deeper into the night,
I danced alone with the darkness…

In the air, a little something

Something in the air reminds me of you,
A tinge of colour from afar,
Paints a familiar picture,
Of days gone by,
Days I spent in the warmth of your arms…

There is a fragrance hanging,
Softly, oh so gently,
Clinging on to the shadows,
Of a memory that was,
Now quickly fading…

Being by your side,
The sense of elation,
I miss the feeling,
Of swinging on your arm,
I miss you…

Break Point!

Mirages, Illusions,
A land of dreams,
Collapsing,
Castles in the air,
Evaporating,
What is real?
Princess or Queen?
Who? When?
A bloody lie,
A messy piece,
Of an old untouched pie,
If it was never so,
Why fake it?
Promises that fade,
Pictures that taint everyday,
No stream or pebbles,
No carpets or stories,
Just a monochromatic monotone,
Of boring reality,
Brutal in its honesty,
Limited in the absence,
Of flights of fancy,
Toying with a mind,
That is losing sanity.

The Epitaph of a Love Song

Lost in collision,
Fading mist in the gathering light,
Rolling down the pillow road,
Bathed in a ghastly gloom,
A few words scattered across the stone,
That marks the head of the tomb,
An epitaph of a love song,
Lost in the deepening doom

Self Sketch

I try sketching a self portrait in words,
Poetry and art,
Sculpting my own statue out of stone,
Critical and analyzing,
I drive my pen a little too hard,
The brush too far and the chisel too deep,
The words distort and the sculpture suffers,
The portrait stall,
Diffusing distress dwells,
Like a silent veil,
Over the pieces of art,
The soul of literature,
The sound of the chisel,
Suddenly silenced,
The paint brush and pen,
Stopped in their strides,
Pushing the lines of existence,
Of art dissolving into death,
Of life and the freedom to live…

Drifting Hues

I’m a biker girl who wears no leather,
I’m a gypsy who lies on heather,
With not a frill, fancy or feather,
I’d live in a dungeon or tower,
Far from the noise in fair weather,
I’d drive on waiting for no breather,
High on life and spirits or either…

Cryin on with the winds and water,
I’ll roll into the earth and matter,
Drillin into deep sea like a mad hatter,
Not frettin bout the thinner or fatter,
Thinkin that can’t there be a falter,
For every once there does come a halter…

Laughin on and spinnin all faster,
Flyin high with a petal of aster,
With ain’t no worry or pester,
Me playin at bein my own master,
As funny as a live livin jester,
London or the far Lancaster…

Dream Crusher

A cracked ceramic cup,
Leaking trickles of tea,
A splintered chip of wood,
Dug into layers skin deep,
A fractured rock,
Split into two,
A mirror shattered,
Reflections in slivers,
A page in tatters,
Words lost to cuts,
A broken wing,
Flight deferred,
A dream crushed,
Life’s labour lost.

Wanton Dreams

Dreams like stray feathers,
Line the window sill,
Drifting with the wafts,
Flying by the wind,
Waiting to drop down,
Softly kissing the ground,
Unbroken, yet incomplete,
Unfulfilled and wanton…

Beauty and Love

Manifestations of beauty and love

The book I just finished reading was beautiful, The Bonesetter’s Daughter by Amy Tan. There is something I read, that captured my imagination and it was the four manifestations of beauty. With any form of beauty, there are associated abilities.
The first one was competence, the ability to maintain a sense of balance, the same rhythm, the same truth the same charm.

The second was magnificence, this went beyond just skill and its simplicity making it unique, yet magnificent, the beauty of the small, the simple.

The third was divine, the aura of a suggestion rather than a proclamation of what is, an absent object identifiable just because it was missing.

The fourth, beyond even the divine was effortlessness, the ability to fathom natural wonder, a beauty of everything being effortless, a light weightless floating feeling, like a magic carpet beneath the feet.

This made me wonder if it was the beauty of love it spoke about, its manifestation and existence. Just pure bliss and serenity of competence, magnificence, divinity and effortlessness, the four axis’ of love across time and space.

A Flickering Flare

Is it a flare or flicker? I am still in introspection. Is it the sparkle of a genius or just a passing spark that talent has bestowed? It is there for sure, but in phases, fleeting and transient. Flair, talent, skill, genius so close yet so far apart. I wonder if it’s there somewhere in the corners of the mind, lurking, waiting and biding its time to appear or reappear as in this case maybe.

There are days of dejection, disillusionment and days of absolute nonchalance and discomfiture. I wish the flicker or flare of genius would happen ever so often like a lasting light of some impression to me if not otherwise.

There are thoughts and hopes and fears and there is reality of it all, stemming yet nipping, the constant cycle of strength over lack of confidence and the reassurance that reality alters priority. Who cares? All I need is for it to light up and last in flames not go up in a cloud or fit of blue smoke, Pooufff! Just so easily like that, no way, I will make it last and work it like the coal and embers and then refuel and refill to the lasting day.

My flaming genius that flickers, you shall last and be remembered and reminisced, if I can I will and I must and should.