One Thousand Motes
What is dust? The dust in the mind is the fabric of meaning, or lack thereof.
We’re stowaways on the wing
symbols of existence with no real defence
against the measure of time.
It’s all about the scale.
Youth’s tiny dreams become lost in dusk-light
when your heart is elsewhere.
She traces the nights edge
with her velvet fingertips; spilling warm ink
over the point of creation.
Reach beyond your luminous atmospheres
soar buoyant, and seek bold magnificence through
the starborn gift of life.
I lapse into incendiary declamation;
where onto the vacuous paper’s sempiternal marrow,
anger often drags my scribe.
She binds me in sensibility.
Wrapped in the twin stars of seclusion.
She and I, in time.
We find purpose in failure
and the consequential lost seconds; the silver
that constructs our straw palaces.
Absurdly safe in verdant veins,
an essence flows; sleepy with life,
to stir my cheerful pen.
Sit often with your demons.
Exploit the darkness. Feed your understanding of
your rare and deeper whole.
Awaken in the sharpening night.
Our diurnal stagecraft of perpetual routine, is
understood and absolved under starlight.
Allow me your maligned spirits.
Permit me a sip of your misgivings
to dilute my own troubles.
We flare like fireflies, addled
in the scent of love’s wet heat
having feverishly swallowed the stars.
I adore the quiet word-smiths;
the night-time harlequins. Silent refugees spurred by
the dervish neuron of wit.
By the depths of her heart
she stuns me into a late awakening.
Reborn. Renewed and hopelessly alive.
When the dust blindly settles,
pay respect to the furious rains, and
rediscover the storm of life.
Beneath clouds and silver birch
our shadows blushed with passionate precision as
time rolled down the sky.
Rainfall highlights a neon dawn.
A guest of existence, tracing the lines;
weaving life from crying skies.
The child in my bones
still haunts the daytime heart trips, where
stillborn dreams and memories collide.
Sunday smiled for tangled fates
when your skin sighed, wet with love
and soothed away lost time.
The hands flew brightly as
beads of love formed rolling tides across
the skin of time-stifled passions.
Colourful memories become rainbow black
painting over parched canvases, ticking the sunset
form of seventeen long summers.
Her kiss is a storm.
The heart’s rust and the eye’s dust,
stripped away in brutal revelation.
We often hold time hostage
caging our days in formaldehyde locks; in
the hopes of a sentence.
With each and every glass,
my weakening heart, woozy with drunken wit;
suggests there are always others.
Shadows lick my darkened cells;
where waxen pillars of guilt cannot countervail
the unrelenting stench of angels.
He forgot his inner child.
Somehow his vision had been lost underground
and his flashlight battery died.
Remain true, you midnight conspirators!
Let not your uncertain pith thread through
the cultivated tears of nations!
Ruby lips and obsidian circumstances
scatter boyish cells of love’s sweet exits;
the solemn price of desire.
We savour our place. Sometimes
we savour it with alcohol paws, and
forget where we put it.
Dear friends. Nothing cuts deeper
than remembering you’re already dust when the
razor shines brighter than life.
Innocence glitters under neon drizzle,
as hopeful fingers punch three letter legends
into youth’s boundless electric perfume.
Bleed into your quills, romantics!
Spill your soulful syllables onto grateful paper.
Drain your essence, proffer dreams!
Shading you from the aches
of melancholy’s midnight palette, my angel strokes
draw you into hope’s ascent.
By engines of sentiment, we
incite the unique from matchless cinders
and steam as no other.
Permit me the chance of
a scented slumber. Delay my hourly longing
to breathe you deeply in.
Amidst a sun split grove
the wiles of essence heave from sense
the buzz of self-fashioned time.
We’re slaves to curdled quills.
More whorish to the sanctum of identity
than pockets full of silver.
You sweet darlings of midnight!
You likeliest of tattered and reticent souls
to take pen to paper!
We slip into the whole
of winter’s dancing promise on frozen lips
and the summer’s unsung dream.
The morning paints new light
onto each lonely canvas, awaiting shades of
sadness - or love's singular highlights.
There’s a beauty in loneliness;
a perfect solace where memories and dreams
collide in valleys of promise.
She toils among the flowerbeds, rendering
her garden beautiful; unaware it already shines
lit simply by her presence.
Our arms may be empty;
wanting. But unbound hearts beat for futures
which remain unseen, yet hopeful.
With undisputed passion she blossoms.
A flower that stirs the quiet hunger
down below my devil smile.
And still we write blindly
onto rocks, swathed in fear as the
planet tumbles into decadent mourning.
Should I betray the night
at least smile at my easy words.
Temper my step with echoes.
We clasp the velvet skies
and veil our insignificance with canorous deceit,
absolved in our eminent wonder
I waited four unknowing decades;
A silhouette on a preordained canvas, awaiting
perfect hands to finish me.
My jealous pen defies me.
As love’s notes steer my thoughts, only
memory lilts my darling metaphor.
We fell from grace then,
one absinthe morning when the clocks spun
around the daylight’s sober spell.