Poetry Blogs (contemplation)

The Last Breath Of Evening

The sky is bruised purple at the last breath of evening

The air stilled from violent storms before the last breath of evening

From the new sunrise and the slow burn of a waking day

Stretching ahead in unknown pleasures to the last breath of evening

A day of honest work and muscles that ache

With the strain of reaching the last breath of e...

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A summer's Christmas,

A winter's Easter,

Sun blazed reflections,

Moon chilled features,

Decaying bright shadows,

Renewing dark radiance,

Exogenous void within',

Luminescently extraneous,

Lagging just to rush,

The constantly inconsistent,

Concealing joyous sorrows,

Being contiguously distant,

Thoughts resistantly flowing,

Nerves electrically static,

Hearing...

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A world of desperation. 

The face and the faceless. 

Indescribable yet on the tip of my tongue.

Impecability holds the key to power.

I stare out over the city on my park bench throne.

The morning hours calm my mind. 

Crows speak in their own tongue. 

I reflect on a night of dreaming. 

The number is 4. 

Time to let go of what I can no longer carry. 

My saving grace is ...

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I want to run, far far away

Where the grass is green, and the children play

Where the sun is beaming and the skies are blue

Where the days are longer and my dreams come true

If I could fast forward to that happier place

Perhaps ill feeling would disappear without a trace

Though If I cheated time, I might cheat myself

Perhaps challenges and realisations are encapsilations ...

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Laying against the darkest wall,

Memories clogged in contorted shock,

Losing consiousness to everything in all,

Its brightest moments dashing up the clock.

The stars dissolve as the sky swiftly falls,

Balled unto the shredded grass,

A lightened match, then a blow to the flames jaw,

Water sunk in the jeans of my last.

Cladded grief material upon my wrist,

Marks ...

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I ponder the etiquette of nursing a pint

and whether some might find it impolite

if I made it last just little while longer that I

might watch the rain that crawls on the steamed windows

making broken ghosts of every passer by

each of them eager to avoid

catching the eye of the living and I wonder

which one of them broke winter’s heart such as to make it

so bitter

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