Twisted reveries,
hold out, aloft, grasping hands.
For escape, on a
tall, westward breeze.
Unlistened memories’,
bold shouts, of high, everlasting lands.
Where, faded sunkisses,
make, hard souls, unfreeze.

The weather is, always, warmer,
on a saviour’s, long, imagined plateau.
Where, vanquished selves of former,
lie, in vast deserts, like sandy gateaux.

But, on my eyes opening, I realise,
it was, just, another fascination.
Like, my quickened time, that flies,
faster, after every, yearly, station.

Each split, grained o’clock,
I knew, they pass. Away,
from, clutched gaps in fingers.
The grit, that slicks, unstopped,
vanishes from view, unstayed,
and touch, elapsed. As they linger.

There approaches, an eventual hour,
coming first. When we lose to second.
A preying, untimely, type of power.
That, only, lank hands, of an almighty clock,
could ever, yearn and use. To beckon…


…our souls. By the rangy, ringing bell, of…


…The Mortal Tower.

© poormansdreams

Healed in the water
as it washed away
my spiritual pains
it
trick-
trick-
trick-
trickled
first along, then shorter.
In cleansing, curing waves
purifying the blood within my
veins. That baptism of a cat-
aclysmic flood. Made
those days of dried
on dirt feel almost
false, incoherent,
fickle. For, I have
been saved by
basking in a
tsunami
of good.
I used to think
that liquid purification
was only applicable to petals,
flowers, buds. But, after I
had become like
liquid I
went on to
traverse
the roots
under
-neath
glorious
gardens
into newly
germin
-ating
bulbs.
Now, I stand tall alongside great cedars and oaks
with their saplings.
Because, from the water; I became wood.

© poormansdreams

The fragility of;
promises. And, their incumbent,
pleasure, or, pain,
hangs in the balance,
of a single, parting cloud.
On, whether, it breaks,
into malevolent;
let down,
thunder and rain,
like, hateful, embroidered,
heavy, teardrop-drapes,
of valance.
Or, makes sunny, snow-capped peak;
fulfillment. Worn, like, a haloed shroud,
in skins, so perfectly,
held together,
that they can’t help,
but, be,
unavoided.

© poormansdreams

Mysterious models.
Manufactured.
By argon-hearted stars.
Nefarious apostles,
have youth fractured.
Why? Ma & Da’s gone.
Departed for Mars.

When surroundings & reality,
are surreal.
You’re out of body/don’t know how to deal.
Because meaningful,
contact is imagined.
Along with,
how you‘re not taught to feel.

Destiny is caught,
in an optimistic eyeful,
but, held in the hands,
of glimpsed emptiness.
Those hollow fists, will drop,
the future, set insight, to crash.
Lips, look above,
rather, wry-ful.
Unable to face,
myopic unfriendliness.
They’re content, to cozy up,
next to a rash;
– stress induced psoriasis –
caused by; a post-traumatic past.

© poormansdreams

The breaking,
of that, final branch.

That, unmistaken,
crunching, chance.

The twist,
that teased,
the gritted crush…

…of bitter unease.

Blood, like, sap, aching,
pouring out, unstanched.

The forgotten cut, forsaken…

…of rotten, felled circumstance.

Feels, as though, inhumane, is everlasting.

To heal and grow…

…after falling, from a baned tree, ungrasping…

…is the toughest ask in life’s chase romance.

© poormansdreams

A Gulf Stream wisp, whistles, languidly,
along, a recalcitrant breeze.
Speaking of temperature, angrily.
The Pavement, can’t help, but, freeze.

Branches, embarrass themselves,
with, protruding bark, baring all.
Their dream, is to one day, be shelves.
When, a messianic carpenter, calls.

Teeth clench. Bold, Blizzard, barges in,
nervous Fangs, creek, in Her presence.
She peppers, horizons, white, arduous sin.
Tusks, sign, mute alarms, luminescent.

Coy burrows, open their arms, to hug,
their Creators, for crisp slumbers, ahead.
Moonlit Creatures, pull and tug.
At soil, Voodoo dolls, to stab, Winter, dead.

© poormansdreams