Pity.

This is only about an hour old, it's young, fragile and still very rough. But take a look.

Pity

I see you,

sinking like a stone.

Stone of mercy,

the mercy of pain,

and a heart of all.

Can’t you see me,

seeing you?

You should know that I’m here.

I could be the river.

Carry you, carry you.

Take you South and carry you.

And your pain is mine,

So close your eyes.

Don’t look.

Not to see

will help you believe.

Find your eyes in blindness,

Child.

Could I convince you

to believe in you?

This & That.

Not entirely happy with the very end of this.

This

This is the home of the spectres.

This is where they wander the streets, in

this darkness that’s yours; always always under

this peculiar shade of grey, never black. The greyest darkness. And

this is where they sleep. Always sleeping. Take a good look and recoil.

This chance will never come again, all because

this world too separate. Too far.

This world is theirs, too.

That

That other city that’s filled by you,

that never sees that grey or pain, is such

that it might keep itself to itself and so keep itself

that perfect shade of glass and marble. Rich in absence and something

that compels a smile at all times new, clean, shiny and

that specific colour. That green specific colour.

That’s your lot’s lot, really. That’s all

that’s there. Now leave.

The Death of the Lost Boys.

The Death of the Lost Boys

I know that I have lost something, but what?

Say, could it be that things long since discarded

could count as loss when taken from our lot?

Expected loss will find a heart unguarded.

Of gentle men that I so loved in childhood,

but somewhere in the flood of years were lost,

is born a pang that’s hardly understood.

I mean to say that something bereft

is strange to cause such sadness when it leaves.

I forfeited my chance to show you love;

my chance to remedy this my heart grieves.

But loss of you has left me this resolve:

That I will hold your names now, close and sore,

and hold the living closer all the more.

Iyam Poet (‘Eyer Me Roar)

Iyam Poet (‘Eyer Me Roar)

‘Eyer me wurds.

Iyam thu voice ‘ere.

Iyam Romanteec... Beat... Enn-

fink.  Iyam Poet.

Love.

“Such, I have long known, is the paradoxical law of all sentiments having terror as a basis” – Edgar Allen Poe

“Therefore,” she says,

“If this is Love –

and love is nought

but Fear relayed

through actions of

dependency –

Then how” she asks

“can I be sure

of truth in me

being, sole, your Cure,

not fright of lone

Death’s remedy?”

“Because, My Girl,

the truth is this:

The only fear

that’s part of Us

is not the reason

for this Love.

It is the paired

heart’s only fear

that one will love

no more.”