CHANGE

People don't change
Neither do veiws
still the stale old refuse
on the floor of a recycling centre.
How can things change,
when it has been set in motion
by the unseen hand of fate

The die has been cast
The descent to hell is easy

They claim discrimination is a thing of this century
they killed everyone back then they say
Can't they see that people don't change
and hated is just death re-arranged
won't they ever open their eyes
to the ever present atmosphere
that has been with this world
for all of time

Jacta est elea
Facilis descenu Averni

EMPTY

Empty my soul,
echoes across a lost plain
where love and hapiness are unknown
Despair the ever increasing tide
Independant from the moon
alwasy dragging me deeper
A rippling pool of sludge,
contaminating my life,
blackening it and leaving it poluted,
it feels like a dream
one I can wake up from
to find a real life present.
A place where I can live free as the,
leaves gently floating in the breeze.
But this is not possible
For surely the breeze would turn,
to a gale
and obliterate the leaves
leaving me once again lonely
Empty my soul

REFLECTION

The mirror looks back at me,
while starring at itself
a reflection of my soul, shrouded by confusion.
It grins, it's mouth a cresent moon,
reflecting the light.
It begins a grim dance,
its lithe limbs ghostlike in their movement.
And lo!
The background reveals,
A rose garden in black and white,
Deep shadows swallowing shapes.
My wraith companion twirls throught these bushes,
the thorns part for him.
While my attempt to follow,
leaves my skin bruised and torn.
Shadowed.
He leads me to a mountain
with a harsh sun beating down,
he begins to climb.
Crumbling rocks break under me,
snapping easily,
like biscuits.
The climb is a long one,
We reach the top,
he stops,
his shadowed body absorbing light.
From his back leathery wings sprout,
like an energetic bean.
He grins at me again,
his teach sharpened,
As he takes off he grabs my hand,
taking me higher,
And dropping me.


Killed by my own reflection.

WHISPERS

His mood changes quickly
from a soft whisper to a loud roar
Ignoring nicities
being polite is only an option

He glides past trees and bushes,
brushing his hand along them
strangely, he seemes to be
everywhere at once

A strange compulsion, he has
blowing across the top of
every bottle he sees
annoying thousands

some days people write poems
about his grace and beauty,
As he lightly dances
over the rooftops

Others quake at his name
as distant memories of death
haunt their subconsious
with a vice like grip