Lines composed on Weymouth pier.

Winds rush out as change rushes in

Bringing fear

Bearing lust

But not love.

 

 

Clouds move in and the sun is locked out

So light fades

And tides rise

Over love.

 

 

Look from the west at cliffs that stretch east

As wind howls

And buoys sink

‘neath loveless caress.

 

 

A storm gathers above those whose life is the sea

Young vessels flounder

Whilst they sit in duress

And white cliffs fade to grey.

 

 

So I look to the fort whose walls pale yet defy

Tempestuous orders

And hurried demands

Enduring years of torment.

 

 

And I learn from them whilst she takes from me

My youth

My mind

And my love.

 

 

Then she throws me over crystal battlements

Condemned

Chained

To a lake of fire.

 

 

I waste years in bondage to this dark agony

Waiting

Still

On Weymouth pier.

A Rime of Rejection

Cast aside and ripped away, lov’d not

By impatient and fickle hearts, who try

In vain, through pain, to drag me, sick with rot

To and fro, torn and fraught, I tire of the old lie.

I walk ‘mongst titan’s pillars slick with lime

Through a verdant glade’s pregnant silence, where

I stop and kneel in this temple of time

And pray for the day I no longer care.

But the wind disagrees with my only request

It’s talons and claws make me falter

To your feet, it says, you shall have no rest

You must walk to your death at the altar.

Battered and broken I shoulder my loss

She hangs round my neck, cruel albatross.

Sonnet IV – The Tragedy

From dark places with dark thoughts, I return

Aware now of malignant agendas

Dream-woken and passion-weary, I yearn

For simpler days spent in love’s soft splendour.

I have seen verdant vistas turn to ash

Cerulean seas dry Vermillion

Bastion walls, weak pretenses, can’t last

Fragmented victims, numb’ring millions .

The rigours of Love are manipulations,

Poesy and art, a form of Vengeance,

Our lives, an illusion of salvation,

The tragedy, our struggle with sentience.

Love; thy necessary mechanism

Thou art but a primal despotism.

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When will I be free of this painful state

Of mind, body and soul longing for you

When will I avoid fits of rage and hate,

Searing jealousy, to me nothing new.

O’ if the crashing waves of time doth heal

And your face, seen upon sands, away will fade

Then never again in thrall shall I kneel

to your monstrous, intoxicating shade.

Until, borne upon Saharan zephyrs

She, another, arrives, to torment me

and make me ashamed of all my nevers

leaves me adrift on a desolate sea.

Still do I yearn for that which caused me pain.

Love is a cure that leaves it’s patient lame.

The Moth

I am trapped in this painful state of mine,

Where time’s soft healing absolves of my blame

Nothing, solace is sought with the next line,

Yet it only serves to deepen my shame.

Absolute error in its purest form,

Apologies are anthems we don’t sing

Lightly, desolate, I bequeath forlorn

Denials of unoriginal sin.

Man or Animal, fall prey to desire,

Torn asunder by guilt, or each other,

Icarian lust draws into the fire,

The Moth, whom flickered, and failed his lover.

Delicate, underserving of this pain,

I will let nothing extinguish the flame.