In A Word

Soft simple words. 

As though the words that he used were to touch my skin, 

the same gentleness of his hands, his caress, his lips.. 

A slow-burning desire that, in moments, broke apart walls that had taken years to build....

On A Shelf

And when the time came

That they were no longer needed,

She wrapped up her affections 

Carefully

In soft silk and ribbon,

And put them quietly away

Next to the shoebox of postcards 

From nowhere,

And the Scrabble box 

With six letters missing. 

For Love

Of all the roles I have had to play,

My favourite was, his woman. 

To be the softness that was the core of his heart,

To be the shore upon which he was the wave,

To be the comrade in arms in his battles,

To be the humour of his darkest days,

To be the hand that sought his in comfort,

To be the body that he utterly possessed,

To be the soul of the poem he wanted to write,

To be the tears he could not weep.

For the wars and the bloodshed were relentless,

And the end was nowhere in sight,

But in my arms and soft songs, he could rest,

In my dreams, he could take flight. 

It is an art to love one who wants loving,

Than a love who wants to be rescued. 

It is a dream to be loved by a man with a mission. 

It is an infinite sorrow for the dream to end. 

Yet honour is short in supply, 

And for honour, he left my side. 

But for love, he made no excuses, 

And for love, would have made me his bride. 

That Place

The Ghosts of My Soul

Banishing Silence

Alive. And Burning.

Not broken.

Frozen. In time. 

Without pain or feeling

Love forgotten, for remembered, 

It is a thought closer to death. 

When remembered, it is despair.

Frozen, sleeping through time itself.

Not broken.

Woken. With a kiss.

A kiss stolen. A kiss only. 

Woken. Still frozen.

Can't move,  

Can't breathe - 

There is burning inside

A firestorm of grief.

Of pain, of misery

Of torture. 

Woken. In anger. In agony. In time. 

Alive. Not living. 

Alive. Not moving.

Alive. And burning. 

Leaving A Light On