After the rain, I see the daisies,
In their clean, white dresses,
Fresh and perfect.
With a single chord, I am prisoner,
My capture immediate and absolute.
An injection of electric
This house was washed away weeks ago.
Freak storm or tidal wave or something;
One of those natural
This year the butterflies will return,
Summer-soft and warm,
I am finding it difficult to remember,
Cannot place in my mind the year gone by.
The angels come more frequently now,
Their visits like spring primroses,
Full of five-petalled,
Your eyes stare at me from under your matted hair,
The layers of dirt and neglect even deeper than
I have forgotten what it is to breathe
Deeply and long,
To drown in the sharp, cold hit of an
I'm a runaway writer, the wolf of the pack,
In pursuit of the thought as the words seem to
Sparks jettisoning into the crisp blackness,
A vivid orange against the backdrop of ebony
I have shut myself inside this box.
Sealed it well, from the inside,
And filled the cracks.
She crammed her head full of clutter,
A fragment of this,
A snippet of that,
Ignorant of the whole, one cannot mourn the loss of the half,
Despair has no foothold, loneliness