Weeds got there first

The walls ached with their knowledge.
While the eyes of the portraits licked across the skin.
Of all those souls who dwelled within.
And even this was barely acknowledged.
For life climbed up to the ceiling.
Wrapped around each feeling.
And slithered and slunk under skin.
But the sun had its day, and blistered the wallpaper.
Bringing tears to the eyes of the young.
Who wished to bury the sun.
In the deep soil of their souls.
The petal parts and the pith.
Of the flowers and the myth.
Of which we cannot control.
And the house still stands, and the grounds still shudder.
Promising a life, unlike no other.
That blooms and ebbs like the stretching seasons.
And climbs to heaven, for most godly reasons.
To meet the maker, and the cultivator.
Basking like the wheat in the field.
Forgetting the devil, and his own dry thirst.
Ignoring that the weeds got there first.

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An interior rhythm

How to rise, when you’re broken.
Like lofty branches that scratch the sky.
Down here on the forest floor, tangled with the roots.
I feel collapsed. I feel free.
I want to tear it apart.
I had to burn it down.
Pick the thorns out of my bark, the chattel from my teeth.
Swaying with the world now. Rising on its axis.
I swing to a new realm, on the pendulous heartbeat of tomorrow.
I allowed myself to fall apart.
Welcoming the termites of time. Destroying all I had.
Whilst watching the watchers in the wings.
Birds who fly with nightshade plumage.
Cluck their tongues and talk of responsibilities.
Laying eggs for a farmer who will devour their friends.
You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know what I grew through.
Such hard terrain and unholy winters. Sprouting to my own spring chorus.
You don’t know me, how could you?
I don’t even know myself.

Twisting the twine

I sit on the string of this, above the chasm.
Watching the wind.
Watching the emotions.
The vastness between us and the closeness in my cells.
Each blink and heartbeat vibrates on this wire.
With no safety net.
With no one there to catch us if we fall.
Only our arms outstretched together, in the loving embrace of the plummet.
But we walk.
We tiptoe. On the egg shelled stained thread of love.
Ever closer to Eden and the tree in my mind.
We’ve loved and lost, then loved again.
Around in the circle of our souls.
Blinded by bitterness and the sting of the self-righteous.
But now the fog of war has lifted.
The spoils are swept away as we welcome the tangerine sky of dawn.
Bringing in the light that burns our eyes, after so long in the dark.
Hold me, don’t ever leave me. Love me on this tightrope forever.

Stacey’s friend

Stacey Stacey, with golden hair.
Three years old, and without a care.
Into the garden, down the path.
With a jump and a skip, out came a small little laugh.
She chased all the squirrels, and sang with the birds.
Muddied her clothes, and watched the cat while she purred.
For alone in the garden, Stacey found such joy.
Away from the anger, her parents, and toys.
The house always heaved, and weighted her down.
A trial separation, her father the clown.
Yet here in the garden, she was among friends.
The fish and frogs, in the pond round the bend.
This bright afternoon, while the social worker hovered.
She found a small butterfly, broken and bothered.
She picked up her new friend and cupped in her hands.
It quivered so slightly, like a small rubber band.
She tried to be quiet, it must be having a nap.
Peaking in through her fingers, to see beauty trapped.
But the butterfly was dying, having suffered a fatal blow.
The hand of a three year old, thrashing in her merry flow.
A tiny little creature, all alone in the world.
Dangerously surrounded by such chaos that swirled.
It fluttered once more then folded and faded.
Leaving the earth, so young and so jaded.
Stacey watched on, waiting for it to spring back up.
She wanted to dance with it by the daisies and buttercups.
Yet after a while, she seemed to understand.
So she buried the butterfly, by the pond in the sand.
And there she left her friend, encased with a tear.
The day she lost beauty, and found only fear.