Reflection

More than the sum of her parts
A reflection of legacies
Endowed with secrets
Matriarchal and encrypted

She stands bereft of memories
Awaiting sorrow's debt collector
An annual fee
Payable by blood, tears, or myths

Electric Lady

My dearest boy asked me
What's it like then?
Living with this thing
This thing you call synaesthesia
I reluctantly relented
And I told him
Where he hears augmented fifths
I see pastels in neon
Where he sees lightning flashes
I taste cloves in melon
When he takes acid
I chuckle
Suddenly aware that
People part with their paycheques
For the chance to experience
My existence
I trip for free
And I never come down
From this freakout
So you can ask me
What colour's my voice?
You can ask me
What flavour's my shirt?
Just don't ask me
To explain yet again
That no, I can't control it
And no, I can't switch it off
This is a full time gig
Living in the kaleidescopic spice market of synaesthesia

Love Letter

I am too long without your affections, and given to weeping. I find no pleasure in dining, nor drinking, nor smoking. I want only your honeyed voice and calloused hands to sustain me. I am yours and will not waver. I count the days until we meet again, and sleep evades me. Comfort is lounging at your feet. I long for Sunday, my darling, when I will be once again in your embrace.

Hemingway

Trapped by wanderlust
Freed by words
Beard burning
White upon tanned
Skin scarred 
Ever searching 
For your lost nurse
Your pure first love
Now we feed 
Upon glances of
Your memories
Caught fading
In dusty mirrors

Plea

In sleep I beseech my kin
Guide me
You are my compass
Aboard this craft
Hold me
You are my comfort
Within this trial
Lead me
Onto sweeter plains
Heavy with hope
In sleep I find my succour
I exhume my nerve
I recover patience
And rise again
Dauntless, to sail on

Benevolence

Little bird trapped in tar
Sinks slowly
Wings buckling
Little lungs full of songs
Torn apart
Heart failing
Will benevolence reach her now?
Light burns her dying eyes
Too late, too late
Comes the cry
Little voice left to wait
Tune fading
Mind crumbling
Little bird caged in death
Feathers falling
Colours pitching
Will benevolence resurrect her?
Little bird deserts the sky
Too late, too late
Comes the cry

Destruction

Awake long before the first hint of dawn, she dreams loudly and brightly, drowning messy thoughts in a witch's brew of memory, hope, and words. Always words, spilling eagerly from her like so many lost laughs, fleeting glimpses of joy peeking awkwardly through the mist of pain. Always pain, pulsing recklessly through her, craving her destruction. Awake long after the last whisper of dusk, she scribes silently and swiftly, quelling urges for oblivion with each stanza, unruffled. She endures.