Sunday 25 January 2015

Find A Way

Inspired by My Chemical Romance's 'Desert Song', this little poem/tune seems to have a mixed meaning that you can interpret how you like.

From the back-page to the front porch,
we'll make it through,
scarred if we must be,
but scared as we are
of the people we'll become,
and the end -
oh, the end that is sure to come.
We'll find a way
to grow our wings and fly,
sharpen our teeth so we're ready
for the backlash,
and heal our wounds
when we inevitably fall down.

Sunday 18 January 2015

Night Walk

It was a cool dry evening; the kind which made me feel I could walk for miles in it: but I had a bus to catch. 
A spider collected its day's victims on the bus stop pole as I waited for my ride to draw into view. 
Alighting, I took my usual seat, finding it to be the only one without a functioning overhead strip fluorescent; the mild seclusion of the half-light suited me. 
As the bus drove nearer town, the late evening traffic slowed us to a crawl, softening every bump in the road to a gentle rock. At this speed I was free to people-watch, to pry into a second of their lives unbeknownst to them. 
When I finally arrived at my stop, I uttered a soft 'thank you' to the driver before stepping out into the faintest drizzle of rain. I wove through homeward bound city workers to pass beneath the bridge 
over which a departing train was piping and clattering; the sound secretly thrilled me. 
Once clear of the bridge, the drizzle began to cling to my hair in beads, reflecting the orange glow of the streetlights as I climbed the hill. In a small side- street, the glare and chaos of the main road began to fade, leaving me to trudge through shadows alone until I reached my destination. 
Distantly, the hollow screech and whistle of the trains below was still audible, but that was all.

Friday 9 January 2015

All Nighter

That first touch lit a spark
Which fuelled the all-nighter,
Opening up a seemingly endless stretch of hours
In which we became what we wanted
And learnt what we could.
Sleep would be for the dispassionate
At the cost of crashing and burning by midday
If only we could own the night
As close to each other as we would like;
One touch of the lips
Revealed our tired hallucinations
To be the sweetest sort of reality.