Maybe…

Pick apart these thoughts in my head,
a humming voice like a soul in my bed.
Guiding my hand to the brighter side.
The lighter way where shadows can’t hide.
This separating process of joy and painful.
A sacred essence, maybe angels.
Maybe angels.

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Sky burial

Make way for sad opportunity.
An internal march into time.
Who here has the energy, to battle any longer?
Only kings know when their time is done.
How to lay down forever, which position do we wear?
Tired and tested.
Joyful and sublime.
Making way for time’s sweet blanket.
We do not crawl to the end.
Or lie here waiting for the angels to carry us.
We hurry, back and forth between moments that mean nothing.
In the eyes of god, or the great beyond.

My Divine pageant

With all this sin that stains my bones.
And a history I cannot hide.
Beholds a life I’ve always known.
Asking to look inside.
For deep within this heart that beats.
Full of oil and the light divine.
Speaks a connection that’s bittersweet.
Of God and I, intertwined.
For though I do deeds that make him weep.
Sometimes those tears are joy.
And though I practise not what he may preach.
His forgiveness I doth employ.
For I’m everything, the good and typical.
Holy particles and hurt maligned.
And I offer, and ask a love unconditional.
All parts, and all the time.

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.

Dear silent shadow

My mind is playing silly games. Your turn.
Synchronised with moon tides and memories.
Waiting for the dust to settle, for the world to quieten.
For me to subdue, acquiesce or fold.
These growing pains, leave me breathless and blurry eyed.
Trying to unhook you, to dispel the miser and the misery.
Parading the joyfulness of a child. Spank me into correction.
Treat me like a four year old, chastise in your maturity.
Even kids get story time and chocolates.
Where is my reward for good behaviour?
Peter panning my tinkerbell tendencies.
Where is my previous saviour?
I’m losing my religion, as it drips away in tears shed from you.
I hear you calling, wanting to play again.
Foolish games?
I drift into my sleep, so turn down your loud bittersweet.
Dreaming, so our broken wings can soar. That’s all that’s left.