words bubble up inside
they bed release and make run for it
at the gate, in the mob of rushing thoughts,
they are stall and die

like a square of wet cloth,
the soul dries from the edges in
it had nowhere reached the center,
when the rain starts again.

once more, its out in the cold and rain
the wind, sweeps it away from the storm
torn and ragged now,
it will never be sown to purpose.

there's a rythmn in the wind,
the rain. in dead days, in which
destiny is followed blind
if everything was planned and set ...

little joys and little smiles and little tears
dwarfed, life will march on
the grand symphony will drowns in the lethe
sometimes a head floats out in a dream

this is life as it was meant to be
ordinary. not bad. not great
for other minds, soaring.
for some, it is just to live.

live out the time allotted
each moment, each day, savour as it passes
hold on to the happy middle
why then, does sleep draw such dreams in the head

walk with both eyes shut
sleep with both eyes open
cry silent & dry
hold straight as the dream escapes

life is sad, the world is sadder
headlines are not to weep for
learn to take it like they do
lightly, for unlike the other, words will choke

deaf and dumb beyond the scribe
emotion, feelings, passions dead
there's nothing that can be shaped or shared
inside the desert, inside the head

half dead, half living
half numb, half feeling
half empty, half aching
half singing, half crying

yet these things cannot be said in words
nor understood, second hand
nor shared, for no vision has its twin

the dead weigh down the arms, though departed
the ghosts walk, talk and laugh
fading, receding, the pain changes
more permanent more pale in colour

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