After all these years,
I’ve failed you.

Not just this time,
but every time,
and I live that way,
day in, day out.

You always meant the most,
and you’re better off now,
without my flaws,
dragging you down.

I hope you can hit your stride,
take off from here and become,
something better than the sum of us,
without our weight hanging from you.

They don’t have it in their eyes,
in their voice,
in their souls,
and it isn’t the same.

Broken shells falling,
clumsily through life,
collecting sand as we roll,
face-first down the beaches,
that looked so sunny and warm,
until the storm came to roost.

The wind and rain beat me down,
as I watch you spread your wings,
soaring away from the disaster;
I smile, the last time it matters.

The echo of your wings carries to me,
and warms my heart through all this,
as thoughts of greener grass for you,
bring a bitter happiness home to roost,
once more, somewhere in my soul.

Fly, beautiful one,
far from me;
love matters.

A scream ends conscious thoughts,
silencing the world’s revolution,
nothing else matters now or then,
aside from the feeling of defeat,
and the gaping chasm of true loss.

A hushed evisceration,
in the slowest of motions,
and life flows away freely,
I care not for protesting it.

My blood follows my emotions,
growing thinner and more pale,
as the hands of the clock twirl,
and everything else cognitive stops.

An overwhelming sense of being numb,
perculates to the surface and takes hold,
as if it were all that ever mattered.

My world freezes entirely,
I see the ice on my eyebrows,
on my nose and on my heart,
as the greatest cold begins.

I can hear you screaming out,
touching out,
reaching out,
too far now,
getting further.

Time ended then,
you reached out,
but I failed,
I refused your hand,
and fell down,
the frozen man shatters,
and nothing important remains.

Days on a calendar don’t bandage,
anything that needs healing,
or ever slow the bleeding,
enough to matter now.

A conflicted soul killing himself,
and maybe thats what you loved;
my self-destructive passion,
that reminded you life mattered,
before leaving you at the altar.

This time, it seems,
you won’t be coming back,
and there will be no open arms,
or reunions stolen from heaven.

This time, it seems,
was the last time,
and my failure,
is almost complete.

I remember days in our distant past,
when you would read my poems and ask,
if they were really about the two of us.

The two have changed over time,
gone and shuffled down the line,
but yes they’re always about ‘you.’

Some have inspired my poetry of course,
and some had destroyed my creative force,
but in the end the writing marches on.

None more important than you,
as time marches on two by two,
your golden hair and eyes of blue,
inspiring me to see the world anew,
even in my darkest moments.

Thank you.

The snow swirls as vortexes of frost,
cutting through the scarves and hats,
of the poor humans caught in the way.

Love’s a cold bitch sometimes,
and it tears at your precious face,
with talons of ice and sorrow,
always digging for your next layer.

Relief comes,
in the form of the sun,
scorching on,
through the walls of snow,
comforting you,
as it begins to warm you.

Reprieve is a temporary partner,
often elsewhere with lost souls,
much like yourself and your kin.

The desert cools your heart,
slowing it’s torrent beating,
enough that you could swear,
it had stopped long ago.

It beats on,
hope shines through the madness,
it beats on,
despair’s footsteps give chase,
it beats on,
your mind is a rusted file cabinet,
it beats on,
oblivion is a gunshot at midnight,
hammering down a nail in your coffin,
as ravens and crows fly carelessly above,
and they wait for the winter’s frost to thaw,
before they start to dig a lost soul its new home.

There are millions of questions,
bouncing around inside my skull,
begging to be answered by you.

Most of them aren’t important,
and there is only one of value:
Would you take that walk with me,
even if we didn’t know the way?

I would.

I know you felt it too,
in between sips of steaming tea,
as the cold air attacked our warmth,
and our souls breathed a sigh of relief.

Feeling the pulse of humanity,
is a troublesome affair,
that leads to much pain,
and too much waiting,
for something, anything.

The heart beats,
the blood flows,
and change fails,
to show its face.

Every major event is just another beat,
in a series of dull thumps leading to nothing.

The static existence continues on,
with no hope of its end in sight,
and no prayers for a new beginning.

People tug one another along,
and the beat never changes;
Sacrifices are required,
but only of those paying attention,
which is to say almost nobody.

A dull poem is a fair representation,
of the person who monitors existence,
far too closely for it to be enjoyable.

The unexamined life is not worth living,
but one examined too closely ends all joy;
a balance must be created and maintained.

Hungry eyes feed off my own,
and dive deep into my soul,
as we bounce ideas off one another,
testing the water before jumping in.

It’s a strong sensation that irks me,
through whether it’s cold or hot,
my mind can not distinguish.

My stomach ignites with butterflies,
flying out of the net that is my heart,
lifting me above rationality and truth,
which matter not when emotions breed.

We’re at a perfect time,
where we’re exposed,
ever so slightly,
and none of our flaws,
have become too much,
for the other to handle.

Who does the bell of these words toll for,
and will the sound reach the right ears?

Life is a series of calculated,
or not so calculated,
risks.

This is a risk I’m willing to take;
I roll my dice on your table,
and wait for the outcome.

Can a dreamer dream of satisfaction,
if they have never been satisfied?

The clock ticks beyond her,
and far from her reach,
it’s too late for time,
that’s gone now.

Forever is never forever enough,
for the ashes of dreams to die,
and stop their smoldering ways,
or the ashes of friendships,
long cool to the touch,
but never to the heart.

The heart will come along once again,
to heal the wounds deemed too deep,
and to rebuild your broken world,
with all your favourite toys,
and puppets to play with.

and the wooden soldier marches,
without sparing a glance,
to the left or the right,
confident in his direction,
and ability to feel heat,
despite the smell of fire.

As the fire licks the wood,
will you come back and save me,
or will you enjoy the warmth,
of all our passion gone wrong?

The flame licks my tender skull,
as the sound of footsteps rage,
and the hero is forgotten,
as smoke fills your eyes;
a tear for me I wonder?
Or nothing at all.

The
flame
licks
my
soul,
on
solitary
nights
filled
with
self
defeat,
and
too
many
chances
gone
astray,
as
your
flame
licks
my
soul.

You can’t just lay there and accept life,
like those who fail to experience good sex.

The bird of fire in my soul ignites,
and launches a firestorm on the apathy,
of friends who’ve let go of their lives,
far too early to experience the pleasures.

You can’t concede your life to boredom and misery,
waiting for passion and meaning to happen to you,
because it won’t come for you now,
or ever again unless you take control,
and raise your pathetic existence up,
out of the dull ashes it simmers in,
and pull it into the sunlight once again.

I won’t let you surrender your soul,
or you will become a shell human,
gutted of emotion and enjoyment,
limping alone, broken and cold;
your fire will burn again,
or else I’ve failed you, my friend.

We can no longer afford to fail one another,
as more cold bodies pile on more cold bodies,
and a chill creeps into the bones of the living,
and the sewers fill with dead spirits who’ve turned,
into monsters that wade through the shit-filled waters,
as ravenous alligators in the swamp, filled with hatred,
ready to destroy the hopes and dreams of the passionate ones,
who embrace as lovers should, and don’t dwell on frozen memories,
because they are too busy creating a fire inside of their lover’s eyes.