alone in timeless space

there are no shadows in the aching night
i cannot sleep for the intrusive sound
nothing seems kind or pleasant here around
i dim but cannot quite put out the light
there's much to worry at the edge of sight
where senses and desires will both compound
in shapes and figures that seek to confound
trapped at the heart of rigour and of rite
nothing that comes from any stress or strain
can quite succeed in making us take thought
for what will come when all leaves start to turn
the rule of life small pleasure and much pain
and all our efforts at last count for naught
we come from fire and our fate is to burn

no platonic shadows

 

when veneers crack the end comes very soon
the scent of pain cuts across every line
we think it midnight but we call it noon

though vultures gather they will never croon
not even when they watch the falling kine
when veneers crack the end comes very soon

at night we listen for the lonely loon
on lakes whose banks are thick with fir and pine
we think it midnight but we call it noon

promises made by light of the full moon
crumble to powder if we have to sign
when veneers crack the end comes very soon

we wake and then we wonder why you swoon
the greatest hopes plain life will undermine
we think it midnight but we call it noon

we ask for peace as if it were a boon
but cannot wait our metal to refine
when veneers crack the end comes very soon
we think it midnight but we call it noon

recovered seconds

 

what numbers mean and what words have to say
are only echoes of a time when pain
comes of a sudden like a summer rain

we live by light of quite another day
when things shall be familiar and plain
what numbers mean and what words have to say

we do not see ourselves within the play
for to that mirror we show much disdain
what's gone is gone and we won't see again
what numbers mean and what words have to say

homecoming

 we take such moments as we can
what is allowed we cannot tell
there is no central map or plan
the journey does not end in hell

nor is a heaven on the cards
for all the holy good and true
the distance is not miles nor yards
and what we find is never new

allow the words to have their time
we come we go and that is all
we tell the truth in prose or rhyme
we rise we falter and we fall

there is no sign beyond the last
we cannot bend our sight so far
we fade quite swiftly to the past
to those who come there is no bar

allow us but a moment's peace
to sing our songs and tell our tales
to stand upright behind the crease
and cry out at the falling bails

this world is neither round nor flat
but follows quite a crooked line
we have our seconds at the bat
and then we go while others dine