Receipt

I wait for the delivered sign
To change to a read receipt;
But, knowing you are fast asleep,
It most becomes a matter of conceit:
To be upset you could turn away
And find peace in sleep so soon,
When I can’t help lie wide awake,
In the darkness of my room.

I wonder if our differences
Would be smaller than love,
If you know I’m not stronger
Than those who push and shove,
Who play games that shed blood,
With guns and ganks and strategy,
Who are young with ribs and abs,
With no depth to counter young vanity.

I wonder, if you notice all the nights
I lie awake and wonder if I’ll win,
In this round of relationships
And manage this subtle crucifix of sin.
With shards of jealousies and tempers
That have not worn out with age
And if I begin to speak of my faults
I’d need more than one soliloquy on stage.

Yet I have eyes, eyes that glisten
With past sacrifice and present emotion
And they gather all that there needs to be known
About people, love, lust and devotion.
You have my love now for better
Or for worse, for all of my remaining days
And perhaps all of the hours and years
That make up the sum of a fantastic always.

Make me know if I have yours and you
For I bitterly fail at the one thing called trust
So give me hope and make me know
If we can link our fates or perhaps if we must.
And the signs must change as is their wont
And sleep will come floating down the throat of night
As I sit and lie and live with or without you
Choosing in bursts to win or surrender the fight.

 

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Organ

I‘ve heard it can love, again and again,
And nothing can detract from its vigour,
No matter the crush of failure and pain,
Or of the stress of life or its rigour.

I have heard (now know) of its strength unmeasured,
As it makes heroes rise and empires fall;
It can single you out to be untreasured;
Yet ables you to stand against it all.

It teaches you just to feel and not learn,
It gives you your self, yet takes you away,
It makes you happy and it makes you yearn,
It stays with you when it leads you astray.

Even when word and thought are unspoken
It hums its song even when it lies broken.

Before You Know It

When the world is going bat-shit crazy
and neo-nazis hurl hate,
governments turn religion into missions
and everyone misplaces faith,

the centre goes spinning
and, all around it, fire unfurls,
peripheries start to burn
in the hands of bigots and churls,

stand aside and think of love,
or the idea of it, and its chance
at being the winner at this war,
Or even a random, shitty dance;

and you look at what gadgets spin –
dyslexia the new face of the game –
and kinda hope that, if love exists,
he will wake and remember your name;

but you get caught in your own bias
and cast aspersions for your right;
and, before you know it, you hate, too,
and become a part of the fire and fight.

So, on you go, eddying and gaming,
blasting the AIs, and earning loot,
and, before you know it, the love you sought
is now some sex that is moot.