Sometimes warmer, most times calm
Somedays a raging storm
Such are the phases of my being
As colourful and mad as you
Yet in this chaotic ecstacy
You seem to have drifter away
I may not know by words nor by voice
But the heart seems so lost of you
Is this just absence
I have felt that before, that hurts
Is this your anger? it sort of hurts too, so I know
For this time neither of those feel like either
I just feel numb
A wretched broken pot
Of ordinary clay
That loves the wish of holding something again.

Endings and a frail wake

What could I express
For I , in all my drudgery and hurt
Have nothing but pain and apathy
A gift by your presence
Willful hurt and your presence just emasculates
All I have to show is a pretty song and a few words
Such is the plight of those I see
And their songs are like a Georgian chant
Echoing in the choir
Underneath frescos of love and bullshit
Faux Pas , yes so much so

How should one dream
When the dream is forever riddled with hurt
A curse , maybe; a gift! Who knows
None for me to ponder upon
For the barley and hops drench my soul
A dash of whisky, or a soulful ounce of vodka
Either helps
Numb, for you rather have me numb
Better numb than seething with rage
Of a hundred trespasses you relish
Wilful hurt, yes, wilful, couldn't be otherwise
Could it?

So is the song the loners sing
And as I join this disdain chorus, so innately inane
Yet as a fool's errand I tug
Knowing this like all else shall be dust
For these dreams I have are unspoken
They cannot be for your hurt are its precursor
Yet you often ask why I won't share
Did you introspect?
Yes did ye?

None as such shall corner me
For the ship has sailed forlorn
Launched by ye Helen,
Ye who hath launched a thousand such ships
This is not Troy, and there shalt be no horse
Wooden with sneak for I shalt just bide
My time and wait forth for the love to subside
It does, hasn't it for you?
It has has it not!

I wonder, yes I can
And you wouldn't care for you see none
For you are blinded by prejudice
Of broken bridges and shattered dreams
Like mine yours
Yet mine were not ulterior
They were yours
Let me dust this enclosure of clay
That holds my soul, for it is time to realize
I will be gone soon,
And all that remains shalt be
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Pointlessness
And all it is
Is but a yearn, in solitude
In journeys of solo, in moments of thought
Deep, pertinent, persistent
Yet just irrelevant at its actual frame
Where has the fabled magic gone
Where is the current celestial connection
As a dried out farmland, or a broken caboose
Yet pretty and picture perfect
Neither matters
For it could have
Why men rape, why wives annoy
Why me, why and what for
Yet these are not of the pondering
Yet are a facade of the want of lone
For a solo retains its beat
In an accompaniment it just recedes
Losing more than self
Wanting more than no less of the self
Yet in a transient permanence
Some random ramblings are a muse
Some are nothing or worse
Yet audible, detestable or otherwise
Who cares
A solo is as is
The sheer forces of influence
Are always a faux pas
Yet the role play
Is nothing less than of class
Be in, or go
Is all they seek
Yet a solo is just so sweet
No matches, no coping
No riveting no revolt
In its sole
Whole
Even more
A soloist can hear the music of his
Pure bliss
Yet unacceptable to most
As if there was a request to be accepted
I am, the longest of sentences
I will be the shortest
No dogmas, no doctrine
Only latent heat
And permanence of cold
A solo is just solid gold
Ask a question, or a million
Yet the answers are never
For I
For I
For I
Lie down, hear the gurgle of the stream flow
In an uninterrupted conversation
Like Sol, juno, Europa, ceres
Surrounded, surrounding
But for I , just for I