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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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To crash, lose and fall,
from those heady heights,
a nosediving, disco ball,
of wet, unemitted light.

A crossed, cascading crawl,
into the deathly night,
a fraying, windswept shawl,
blown by galeforced might.

The reeling of the pits,
in the damp depths of the stomach,
as glum hearts deflate,
plummeting,
to their promised demise.

Defeat reddens spit,
cheeks fly the colour of ruddocks,
descent down to Mt. Hate,
tumbling,
through disquieted eyes.

The cruel, unrequited fall.
The smashed, abyssal disco ball.
The sulking, jet, cataract crawl.
The unravelling, hurricaned shawl.
The grave, staggering pits.
The stray and scarlet spit.
The chasm of a stomach.
The vermillion ruddocks.
The burst hearts that deflate.
The sinking spiral, Mt. Hate.
Became promised demise.
Untwinkling, in disquieted eyes.

And, are, all;
liqu-
ida-
ted,
into
a;
drip,
drip,
drip
feed.
For,
the
dev-
ils,
un-
sat-
ed.

© poormansdreams

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Yearning for a much simpler time,
yet the ticking clock only stops,
when the overlord behemoth’s thumb,
presses the languid clicker at the top.

Churning are these guts of mine,
bones ground to juice that flops,
a remainder of all things in sum,
mass bodily equations; divide, drop.

Burning are high stakes of thine,
the living inferno never, ever stops,
bullet holes spew from a smoking gun,
a blue prison; is all you’ll ever cop.

Returning to the scene of the crime;
are the leopard gecko’s slimeball spots,
no contrived camouflage under the sun,
could disguise what you haven’t got.

Spurning longjevity in life’s grand design,
ageing knees and elbows; envy baby cots,
yarns left woollen trails as they’re unspun,
concepts were a 1 in 400 trillion shot.

Learning to make the most of light ashine,
the gloaming thief of joy; takes the lot,
every evening He turns his back to shun,
the roving wanderers without a piss or pot.

Earning a reputation for standing in line,
we all fall head long; as we come-a-crop,
the tasers are always set to stun,
as high priests of power scheme & plot.

Unturning are; unlimited tides of time,
oceans render; we sailors, besot,
waves of deathly wordplay; minus puns,
it’s the sum of; every jet & flot.

No matter how many bottled signals,
we’ve received or sent,
time always sends;
the final message in the end.

Yes, my friend, no matter how many bottled signals,
we’ve received or sent,
time always sends;
the final message in the end.

© poormansdreams

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