Tiny pictures
17/06/2017
My body flakes away aimlessly in tiny reflective mirrors, cascading in all directions tiny pictures of who I used to be.
Confusing themselves with memories I’ve yet to have.
Gravity holds no place here the only way is outwards.
Like failing grasps of a broken heart desiring the neediness of a new freedom.
Flaking away, giving my all until found or worse.
There’s no me’s left to give, perhaps this is just a reflection of a poem I used.
© G.P Williamson 2017
Coffin Lid
24/06/2017
I can’t be the one to close the coffin lid.
I can’t because I’ll remember your eyes.
The way they used to look at me, and how they look at me now in my mind’s eye when I’ve not even thought about closing yet for fear,
fear of penetrating the cling film lid of your beauty.
Beauty which held a building, made a flat a home an apartment a womb, mind a soul and a family a tomb.
Beauty which would blossom if you’d let us live.
Forget it.
Instead we make beds for empty spaces, time killing eclipses where legs don’t run races.
Sweet goodnights with no kisses and two faces.
I can’t close the lid for it holding the rose we proposed.
The butterfly kisses on cake facet mixes and wall’s we affixed, painting’s transfixed of photo’s – we exist!
Before we betwixt, half way down the list where now you resist the touch of my kiss.
I can’t close the lid.
Rise from the ashes!
This family bashing is causing alarm our foundation is crashing whilst you’re just relaxing, doesn’t it mean a thing?
This wedding ring?
Your pheonix won’t sing to your last hopeful king?
Suffocating in style the cover’s worthwhile.
The writing does suffer as I watch all the others, Where I seem to smother you, still do not bother.
Aaaargh! I’d growl to the ether if the spirits were kind but this is not our first time at rewind.
I’m better off unable.
A dead horse in a stable.
I’m here to be used but I’d rather be intune to a respected connection a belonging with you.
I can’t close the lid.
F*ck you I’m past caring.
My daughter’s my heartbeat and that life I am sharing.
© G.P Williamson 2017
I’d run
24/06/2017
I’d run after you if I thought for a second you’d acknowledge the race.
Stick to the rules and just run in a straight line so we could meet at the end.
It doesn’t matter who wins as long as we’re beside each other and together….
Who am I kidding? You gave up ages ago, I’m running solo.
There’s three times three lanes to this and I never wanted her to have to compete let alone keep up.
We will see you at the finish line.
© G.P Williamson 2017
Burning Ice.
21/06/2017
Your note was first to go followed by an arm and all that was below.
Moons swapped with suns and nights became days, weeks became years and that glow still stays.
The ice fills the land after a two mile gap.
You won’t find any oxygen the fire saw to that.
Church spires and skyscrapers peek out above the ice, a new land all frozen crisp, a new delight.
No movement, no birds, no people, no mice.
Nothing but silence and ice after ice.
Apart from a glow like a lump in the throat, it can be felt anywhere….
… just like your last note.
© G.P Williamson 2017
A note in time.
21/06/2017
The busier it gets the busier it gets it’s that simple.
The spectators roar with laughter as ghosts in imaginary docks.
Bumping shoulders with each turn my life takes and pointing with every trip or fall.
I pick up pen to magically vanish within it all.
The stationary unseen object amidst the foggy confusion, organised chaos, life’s illusion.
I appear to remain relatively unchanged whilst everything alters.
I appear to keep climbing when the ground faulters.
This is how apparently we outgrow our adversaries.
I call it simply a neccessity.
Next time I might make a note to myself.
To learn from the previous space in time when I could write.
When I could dicsuss with my higher lower consiousness the meaning of life and tell my lower higher consciousness off for making rude jokes whilst people are talking.
© G.P Williamson 2017
The Orphanage
21/06/2017
The orphanage was set back in the trees like they always are.
Idealic scenary with an image of perfection.
A place for children to play although weren’t allowed out in.
I saw your face earlier when you asked about my history.
It changed to pain saved like a snapshot you paraphrased.
As though my memories were briefly yours.
They hit like an old magical sword, to the hilt.
Yet they were born only from fact and word.
The orphanage was set back in the trees like they always are.
© G.P Williamson 2017
The wolf in the kitchen.
05/06/2017
The wolf in the kitchen.
Red eye’s tresspass beyond the cupboard doors.
Watching without fear.
Looking without need.
Feeding upon desire.
Mentally attuned to it’s unwitting prey.
Laughing at your conversation.
The way you dance by youself.
Each time you’ve felt less than.
That’s the wolf who stole your glory.
How you leave butter on the side or can never crack an egg cleanly.
The wolf in the kitchen.
Forestation through cucumber roses.
Herbs and spices where time lapses.
Cherry tomatoes where the red is so succulent it leaves marks on your lips.
Red eyes tresspass beyond the cupboard doors.
©G.P Williamson 2017
