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Description
A train
Of thought,
That, having sunk low
Below the bubbles,
And swam between my fingers,
Shot up my spine
Like a rush of gold:

They said
She had eyes
The colour of mirrors.
Splashes of silver
Between rows of black reeds,
Two dark pools,
Two sunny spots that could swallow
A supernova
Whole,
Two starry dots that glowed
Like an ink filled fingerbowl.

A single orange star,
Beneath a brass-pocked sky,
Winks at passing cars,
(And lorries flying by,)
Softly, softly, softly,
Pouring,
Into a pale haze of headlights
Drifting, passing by,
Beneath an ink-washed sky.

Softly,
Remembering
A walk beside those cobwebbed stars,
Skin drenched in an orange glow,
Ears drowned in the rumble
Of tireless rolling...

And whats the point in disturbing
Long-settled dust?
A book dusted with grey webs,
Soft silver dust,
Webs that lock together forgotten pages,
That cling like age
To a sea of worn faces,
Til they crumble beneath your thumbs
And come undone.

They forgot how to breathe
Like gills choked with weeds
And salt-poisoned waves
Of nausea that wash between
The ribs of an empty cage.

And what of
Confronting the sound
Of this phrase?
And biting my lip
Just three seconds too late,
It cannot be snatched back;
It hangs in the air,
It hangs itself to the ticking
Of marbles dropping
Between a stone and a cloud,
Falling, falling down,
Unable to hit the ground.

And where did it land?
And, Where?
Did it land?

The future
Is a fading phrase

The past, pinned,
Muted, fixed and forgotten.

Three seconds are all it takes
To formulate a soundless phrase
And fix it in its place.

Description
A train
Of thought,
That, having sunk low
Below the bubbles,
And swam between my fingers,
Shot up my spine
Like a rush of gold:

They said
She had eyes
The colour of mirrors.
Splashes of silver
Between rows of black reeds,
Two dark pools,
Two sunny spots that could swallow
A supernova
Whole,
Two starry dots that glowed
Like an ink filled fingerbowl.

A single orange star,
Beneath a brass-pocked sky,
Winks at passing cars,
(And lorries flying by,)
Softly, softly, softly,
Pouring,
Into a pale haze of headlights
Drifting, passing by,
Beneath an ink-washed sky.

Softly,
Remembering
A walk beside those cobwebbed stars,
Skin drenched in an orange glow,
Ears drowned in the rumble
Of tireless rolling...

And whats the point in disturbing
Long-settled dust?
A book dusted with grey webs,
Soft silver dust,
Webs that lock together forgotten pages,
That cling like age
To a sea of worn faces,
Til they crumble beneath your thumbs
And come undone.

They forgot how to breathe
Like gills choked with weeds
And salt-poisoned waves
Of nausea that wash between
The ribs of an empty cage.

And what of
Confronting the sound
Of this phrase?
And biting my lip
Just three seconds too late,
It cannot be snatched back;
It hangs in the air,
It hangs itself to the ticking
Of marbles dropping
Between a stone and a cloud,
Falling, falling down,
Unable to hit the ground.

And where did it land?
And, Where?
Did it land?

The future
Is a fading phrase

The past, pinned,
Muted, fixed and forgotten.

Three seconds are all it takes
To formulate a soundless phrase
And fix it in its place.