Black sucks in all things,
refusing to reflect, to
allow the light to bounce
back in a colouring of

being, where all is con
sumed and devoured, in
a great swallowing of
being, whether cosmic

hole, clothes, night or
the caverns of depression
which allow nothing to
be released and all is

held, contained, trapped,
imprisoned in life’s
refusal to allow expression…
such is blackness.

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Words emit, rent air, claims,
calls and warnings of doom
in a world which has long
forgotten how to be, and,

in the doing, demanded
more and valued less, as
waste piles ever higher
and fear towers above

all of it, drowning in
that ocean of desire,
demand, and utter
hopelessness, where

the angels whisper of
hope, but remain unheard
as the clamour grows for
someone to step in and

save us, to do some
thing, when what is
needed is for us to be,
in the fullness of love.

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Removed, released, abandoned
falling to the earth, lost in flight
descending, shuddering to
birth. So in death abundance,
new ways to be known, drowned
in ink, enamoured, stories to
be told. Feathered are the minutes
of that final flight, tossed on
breath of angels, drifting out
of sight. Delicate abundance,
whispering to the wind, calling
to the dance of life – so it all

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Does it matter

Does it matter, what
we think, or want, or
even do? In terms of
any plan life may have
for us, or are we just
like puppets on a stage,
with lines written, set
in time and stone, with
string being pulled by
something else, to make
us move in certain ways,
at certain times? Does
any of it really matter
beyond how we feel on
this stage called life,
and even then, does it
really matter and how
can we know what matters
and what does not, or
if the truth is that
everything matters and
nothing matters in that
paradox of existence?

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To move

To move beyond the moment,
embrace the touch of time,
surrender to eternity; such
destiny defined. And yet

in seeming silences, I
wait and ponder why, the
moment demands leaving,
when staying is required.

To move beyond the moment
seems surely to be wise,
and yet the heart calls halt;
suggests I wait awhile.

This constant inner battle,
this tussle of the soul, oils
the cogs of sanity, leaves
madness at the side.

And then in whispered
minutes, the pull of life
ensures, that moving on
is destiny; to stay is not

allowed. For straggling
in the hem of days, are
stories to be told, brushed
clean by steady movement:

all doubt is now resolved.

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s there such a thing as
time; measuring out of
moments, where some
thing concrete is made

and holds fast, regard
less of whether we are
aware of it, or if we
are awake or sleeping?

Time can drag through
seeming eternity, or
vanish in an instant at
the moment of sleep.

Where does it go, and
did it ever exist when
its form and shape are
so unreliably existing?

Time mocks, consoles,
weeps with us and
rails against itself, in
endless, full motion.

And it is silent beyond
the slow ticking of its
heart, which beats in
rhythm with our own.

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We are reduced, brought
down into small places,
long ignored in the days
of youth, if indeed, ever

imagined. But time trims
and prunes inexorably, to
bring the minutiae of life
into our minds, in order

that the trivial, banal and
inconsequential, can be
known for what they
really are – the building

blocks of our being; the
atoms of our soul; the
threads offered for slow
weaving in allotted days.

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