Enemy

You are my mortal weakness,
my single fatal flaw.
But is it really my own fault?
the people I adore.

I've suffered long
and bled a lot
under arrows blows

and yet you stay the greatest prize
the queen of both my eyes.

Love, you are a sickness,
infesting in my mind.
Your cancers wrapped about my heart,
and tighter grow the binds.....

Steptoe's Yard

In Steptoe's yard
the grass now grows.
Where once upon a dream
the tall trees throws,
in shadows mist
and nettle beds
scrap steel, and brick, did rest their heads.
Among the tufts of think coarse weeds,
(with muddy patches in between)
the ivy bushes hugging tight
to rubble piles, in fading light
of dappled green on old white vans
algae smeered from lack of man
as bluebells spring between the stones
a broken chair sits like a throne
basking in thr suns soft glows
it's feeble purpose, now unknown
a useless relic no one owns.
Just like the yard, now over grown
devoid of all of mankinds woes
and we ask, is it better off this way?
now burning drums have lost their stay
and birds and crickets over thrown
all the pain and hunger man have blown.

Love Song of the Broken man

If I could turn back the hands of the clock,
Reverse the worlds melancholy tick, tock
Take back the day I met you,
and give back every word,
I would.

If I could erase you,
Like footprints on a beach
Release my mind of your burden
And escape your ice like grip,
I would.

If I could never utter your name,
now, or through history
and learn not of your existence
never feel your mark on the world,
in a heartbeat,
I would.

If I could take everything of you,
So well folded it fits in an envelope,
And place it on a shelf,
Buried under the weight of the world,
I would.

If I could tear out this conflicted heart,
And everything its known.
Destroy every trace
Every way you helped it grow
I would,
A million times, I would.

Never Enough

If I am more to you
than a name, a face
a piece of the past
a day in your history
a shadow, been cast.

If I am more to you
than verses on paper,
words in lines
and letters of order.

If I am more to you
than a memories distant hum
a figure in the mist,
on a train that has come.

If I am more to you
than people on pavements
hurrying away to insignificant wives
dealing with problems
in their un extraordinary lives.

If I am more, not less
not the same
than I was the day we first met
and our eyes first agreed,
then be mine forever
and I'll be more for eternity.

Be Still The Girl

you're still the girl,
Standing on lone platforms
with sadness soaked eyes
and a dream in her heart.
Written on crumpled paper
like last nights phone number.

Still the girl,
the one to change the world
with a history of breaking hearts
and weakening knees,
neither your own...

Still the girl,
Standing on clifftops laughing
at the dying waves on cursed rocks below.
Like a siren, calling the sea to die.

Still the girl,
Who through nights of slumber
eyes burn bright
with a fire so fierce,
so hot, you burn white.

Still the girl.
With arms wrapped about my heart.
Neither in embrace nor strangulation
but still choking me in the dark.

Midnight Soldier

Take this night and run
onwards through oblivions shadow
past the trees where death lurks
and over darkened graves.

Burn through this hollow night
like a pheonix on wings of flame
and stop, neither for friend nor foe
before the moon catches your tails.

Pick up you sword with honour
and weild it at the stars
let the light from burning embers guide you,
to rest this midnight hour.

Come what may, this night is for the taking.
for all fighters to earn their battle scars,
let nothing here deny you
through inken skies we march.

And time will find its passage
from day into the night.
Through gritted teeth we bark
like dogs at full moons light.

We are the midnight soldiers
our weapons held within.
Forever we stand this cruel night,
awaiting the war to begin.....

Finest Hour

If this is my finest hour,
and these be my final words
think not of them as strained,
or scripted or false.
Think of them as a parting gift
of improvised dimensions.

And typed on cold granite
phrases of virtue and honour,
now meaningless to the passers by.
For everyone in the grave yard was great.
As if the devils never die,
but linger on and haunt us.

As my old bones
thrown into the sod
creaking under the weight of the world
and my cold closed eyes
and stiff icy fingers
neither blink, nor twitch at the sound
of the mourners feet drumming
on the ground,
think upon this:

If this is my final hour
and these my finest words
what life have i lived?
but one that is absurd....