eventually,
they all go,
one by one,
like paper boats
in a downpour
towards a drain.
along the gutter
they float,
effortlessly.
until they
disappear.
and you wonder
why they went
like that, and
what you did
so wrong.
π ππππ ππππππ π πππ π ππππππ’
ππππ ππππ π πππ πππ ππππππ
πππππ ππ π πππ, πππ πππ
ππππππ πππππ ππ’ ππππππ,
ππππππππ, ππππππππ, ππππππππ.
πππ ππππ ππππ, πππ πππ ππ
π ππππππ ππππ πππ ππ ππππππππ’
π ππππ ππππ πππ ππππ πππ
πππππππ ππππ, π ππππ
πππ ππππππ πππππ πππ ππ
ππππππ ππππππππ ππππππππ
πππππ – πππ πππππ’πππ
ππππππππ – πππππππ ππππππππππ
ππππ ππππ ππ ππ, πππππππ ππ’
πππππ, ππβππ ππ ππππ.
πππβπ ππππ ππ π ππππ ππ’ ππ’ππ πππ,
πππ π ππππ ππ’ πππππ ππ πππππ.
π π πππ πππππ π’ππ πππ πππππ πππ ππππ πππ’,
πππ ππππ πππππππ πππ ππππ πππππππ
πππππ πππππ ππ’ππππ,
πππ πππ ππππ ππ ππ πππ πππππ,
ππππππππ πππ ππππ,
ππππππππππππ’ ππππππ.
πππ π π πππ ππππ πππππ π’ππ π πππ π π πππ,
πππ πππ π ππππ πππ ππππ ππππ,
πππππππ, πππππππ.
πππ πππ πππ ππ ππππ ππ πππππ ππ.
πππ πππππππππ ππππ πππππ,
πππππ ππ πππ ππππππ, ππππ πππ.
πππππππ ππππππ, ππππππ,
ππππ πππππ ππππ.
πππππππ πππ ππππππππ.
he came, at last, to my hope.
around his eyes, brief, infinite,
knowing nothing.
it is agile and clean like the
tender wind of the early morning,
cheerful and soft and deep as
grass under water.
he gets sad sometimes
with that mural sadness
that makes quick idols on his face
and draws worried ghosts.
i think it’s like a little girl
asking an old lady things,
like a giddy donkey
entering a city,
full of straw.
he also has a mature woman
who suddenly frightens his gaze
and moves inside him and
bites his insides with tears.
i was sad to see them
wrapped in plastic
after picking them
so freely in the fields
all those years ago.
a girl and her basket,
nose blushed by the sun,
ribbons snapping
in the wind,
mosquito bites and
the hum of bees
as golden light
cast shadows
across tall grass.
in the distance, laughter.
innocence, yet to be taken
why do we behave
like weβll be here
forever
always surrounded
by those we take for
granted
why do we wait and
regret
when itβs too late
for us to say
the things we could have said
yesterday
they left two large holes
deep and dark
like a well in the forest
and i started to drown
at first
and lost myself and
who i was
the parts of me that were them
until i saw the flowers
and filled the holes
with shells from the ocean
that sparkled
they told us to just
βgo backβ
like it was nothing
and everything was going
to be fine.
and it would all be
βnormal.β
βletβs just get back,
yβknow,
to the way things were.β
and what way is that,
exactly?
run into the ground.
weak.
exhausted.
completely burnt out.
although,
i did try
at first,
to simulate
a life vaguely resembling
the one I remembered.
gathering those
old threads
to weave
into something
new.
but the result was patchy
and threadbare.
what was once deemed
beautiful, now ugly.
something else was
mixed and woven
into my skin.
and the more i
resisted, the more it
pulled and tugged and
bled, as i refused to
accept the foreigner
that was squatting inside
me like a toad.
dark days realised.
but i needed
leverage to reach
the blue dome above.
and to land on jagged
rocks at the bottom is often
the only escape.
you can always look up
when youβre down
and witness the vast
expanse of
studded stars.
i walk towards broken palaces
like ivory towers
in the distance, castles covering the falling stars
that cascade onto crumbling sand dunes.
my heart it shatters like glass
but that doesnβt stop me from
running so fast towards you –
away from you
and into the dark forest where it is always
night but no moonlight
shines, only the illumination of
my soul that throws a glow
of enchanted curiosity.
what was it that led me here?
what was the spark that ignited
the fires? as the clouds gathered
overhead and turned silver
like swans.
what electricity travels through me
and who is even writing now?
if i stop the magic stops;
like water not flowing, rivers not running
and i know iβll never stand still,
like a shark constantly swimming
to avoid dying,
and all the kingβs horses,
and all the kings men,
could never put me back
together again.
and when it rains i cry
and it cries when i reign.
but i am no queen, like a pauper
i am
begging outside these stone walls that we built
pleading for your time
and your mercy.
what bird is this
that comes to me
so late at night
and speaks sweetly
bringing word
of places unknown
with tales of forests
overgrown
of running rivers
never dry
of star filled nights
that shine and thrive
it whispers to me
where i reside
a dank, dark well
amidst the tides
for i know no sunrise
or blue moon that shines
my world is darkness
and endless night
THE LONELY WHITE WOLF 