Coursing Through The Night

The resonating night does waiver,

Under the tumult of sundering thought

A tired mind does quietly reminisce

Of memories that perhaps never were

Silhouetted figures rush past in a flurry

Further obscured by the rain-kissed glass

A wave of misty strangers around me

All sondering through adventures of their times

A girl of arresting beauty, sat across from me

Eyes of cerulean blue embellished her pale flesh

Her hair, like a silken quilt of sun-kissed gold

Serenaded her face like the crowns of old

The golden-haired maiden, busy in her technological tales

Glimpsed at me sometimes, through her surreptitious gaze

Stealing moments of glances, she whispered secrets through her eyes

Echoing through the untold silence; the distance between us

And yet, when she moved to leave,

And enter into the wet and dark world awaiting her,

She shyly partook in a final fleeting glance

With the hint of a lingering smile…

And how refreshingly wild it was, to arrest that moment

In a bubble of memory and time;

As she treaded softly on the gentle winding paths
That bring a smile upon the backs of mellifluous dreams

Broken Things

He was so broken, like a shattered window

Refracting sunlight; into ugly contortions

Like a prism that defied Newtonian laws

And refused to acknowledge the rainbow

He was so broken, like a cracked tea pot

Trying to contain; trying to retain

The bubbling frothy blackened nectar

But alas, it too left through awkward spillage

He was so broken, like a phone past it’s prime

The numbers never beeped, the lights never flashed

The dial-tone never ceased it’s monotonous scream

To commune with the world was not an option…

He was so broken, like those really cheap headphones

That leaked music into the vacuum of his empty life

And dissolved it in the milieu of limitless agony

Shuddering echoes left in it’s convulsing wake

He was so broken, like those fucking awful printers

Which never did print what was asked of them

Storing vast repositories of ink within; potential words,

All lost; because putting them on paper required effort

He was so broken, and he thought he enjoyed it

But inside all the cracks, jagged edges and fragments

Lived a deep, brooding misery; growing in estranged silence

Making him uglier than his scars, warts and boils

He shook with anger, and shouted a big ‘’Fuck you!’’

The intended audience, the world, gave a shrug and moved on

He sat there, defeated and tired, on the brink of madness

Yet he wore a strange smile, not a grin, but not a smirk either

I wonder if that smile still lingers on his lips

Quietly supplying me with a selfish hope…