Ghost

You’d come to stay.
Lifting away emotional boxes heavy with sorrow.
A wreckage of circumstance and bits of dead skin.
Tumbling from shared DNA.
You’d come to stay.
Unfogging the glasses that looked towards tomorrow.
As the walls caved in around us.
Brick dust and reality coating our lungs.
You moved it aside, a place for everything.
And every heart in its right place.
Having been torn away.
You took my hand and calmed my heartbeat.
The shiver was from the cold, nothing more.
Sweet words melted into this moment.
You said you’d stay.
All things fixed, you’d come to find it.
The reason for our pain.
It vanished of course, upon seeing you again.
A visitor hanging there like a family secret.
Precious and ours only.
Praying together, staying forever.
You’d come to stay.
That was what you say.
In my head.

17/05/202317/05/2023 by Mark Ryan Categories: death, ghost, griefTags: art, crazy, death, ghost, grief, loss, mental, mind, poem, Poetry, stay, touch, writing 9 Comments

Heaven is shut/open (Story reading)

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The plane took off, soaring into the sky as the sun died on the horizon. All was safe, all parts working. Wheels stored safely as the streaming sound of pressure encased them. He looked out of the window and watched the ground give way. He sighed. He’d hoped for a failure. Maybe later when they were out over the ocean, no chance of rescue there. No one ever survived a plane crashing into the sea….

Read on

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02/10/202109/09/2021 by Mark Ryan Categories: depression, fiction, heavenTags: art, depression, fiction, heaven, hope, mental, mentalhealth, reading, salvation, shortstory, story, suicide, travel, wellbeing 2 Comments

What we have is gold

Block karma as it seeps into the crevices.
High on me like supersonic agitation.
Suspended apprehension.
Giving time to wallow in the presence of now.
Born out of the very fabric you wish to tear.
July night, watching independence explode like a fountain of stars.
Too mentally exhausted to matter.
Collecting gold and the thoughts which shatter.
Everything trapped in glass.
Trading sorrys and eyes which follow.
Bleeding into tomorrow.
Cut down in its needling prime.
Dispelling cowardice and collecting courage.
You are sorry. (So at ease)
I still love you.

01/09/202102/08/2021 by Mark Ryan Categories: fears, sorry, starsTags: art, coward, fireworks, fountain, gold, mental, poem, Poetry, stars, tree Leave a comment