SWORD

REALISATION

Clouds drift silently into shapes.
Once just blown,
now a face.
As hopes and dreams,
always in a mocking distance remain,
end’s flirtatious end,
just a glance away leads
forever oozing clouds.

And when time thus passes keenly,
enough is always a margin away.
So I drift, tailing this ever-forming flow.
Here it seems, time thinks and ticks.
And there, I remained,
a few hours more than enough.

When my focus solemnly descended,
met nine-mile-smiles and,
Fist-tight frowns,
Inspired, I wrote penance.

PENANCE

Haven’t we burrowed deep?
deep enough to the end
not walk-apart end
but piece-together end.
We have tossed and turned
so this wild love’s wills to bend,
and our loving cycle mend.
But alas! Our loving cycle ends
not piece-together end
but walk-apart end.
There’s been a pausing before the end;
time between surcease,
cessation’s beginning to end,
in between, to pause, I tend,
to observation’s views tend
a while’s wait, long enough to comprehend
that it’s not me it’s you,
that I need a long walk after the end.