ClothesOld clothes slide on the skin like mausoleum night shifts
Those ghosts of the party, the beach and the cried out nights
Lift the soul to the floor.
The stitching is too tight and my legs are itching to be free
They drape the flesh like blinds that were alright for old me
I have grown.
My style is the same but more defined like
Biro ink on lined paper
The yellow lemon drop retro skirt of the fifties but I made it 00’s
The cars zoom all over it, still to be worn
With the baggy Shelley shirt.
My gig dress catching dust, as a memory of
first musical occasion
Too classy too feminine to be emo
But that was it
Team Jacob and the Technosaurus all with the skinny jeans
In rockin’ black. Always Black or Bright
The summer florals to be worn at 30 swished below the knee
Still with opaque leggings
They stick to skin,
All of them now.
They’re not me. They’re old me.
Not Bobbly and threadbare but…
Too much room,
Enough for ghosts and memorie
On my minds eye's edge...On my minds eye’s edge I waver,
And watch those watery depths that did acclaim your soul.
Did they wind around you?
The same way they taunt the shore?
A prisoner of the oceans rush, but I knew it was always more.
No, I knew you; it could not be so simple, a death known by so few
But I will make sure you still achieve your goal,
By hand and heart I will continue this labour.
Of Love, I know yours for me was settling into a cosy armchair
To read and grow old while you gazed at another so bold.
Although my pulse never faltered;
Except in envy.
From the earliest memory,
From home to here, the depths of emotion never altered.
Now I am alone.
How are the children to be told?
At the waves I can only but glare,
They are your murderer’s excuse,
A bullet through the mouth of truths as they all whisper,
You were never to be found, no body, no part in human history;
Dead in the water and drowned.
But your words will always be around
And your living deeds clear from mystery.
Anti - AutumnAlarm on a September eve
As a diseased swarm it,
Descends, whipping sickly veins,
That taunt the twilight a deathly black.
The chill gnaws on unaware leaves;
Their rotting carcasses still
Raining destruction as you walk through the snarling wind.
Cold embrace forbids passage
But with old armour woven you head forth
The Warning BellsWarning bells; they ring. Louder. Louder like a banshees dying lament. Shrieking. Louder. It had been foretold but I did not believe it. How could it be possible? Run to the window. People are panicking, scarpering like a blind gaggle of geese through my tiny cobbled street. I need to run. I need quiet. I want the light chatter of a market day to return, although it will not. I need safety. I need to run. Where will mother and father be? Fathers forge? The market? My newlywed sister's home? Will they come back for me? Should I find them?
The gap between the bells shortens. The melodies of angels overcome by a devilish din of death that stabs at my mind. I clasp my head in my hand, must not panic, must not panic. Can't stay still, need to get to safety and find my family. But where is safe? Nowhere is safe! Cloth on table is ideal for carrying objects. Food, mother's jewellery, my book, a knife just in case swiftly bundled.
Chaos reigns. People flood down the str