hoard

there is a secret hoard in men
in the manner of secret spaces
intimate spaces
all their lives it makes them sad
they don't know why
then one day you come
and the hoard realises it was awaiting you
to be the nucleus,
the eye of its storm
and it binds you
and the men come to know why they are sad
and it is a thing of wonder
for the storm abates from their eyes
as their souls are becalmed

an excerpt

you ask what of the sea?
what of the sea indeed
he just has an eternity
to turn the grains (of sand) over
to look for her
and to break up on her shore

love in the industrial age

come butterfly
you winged magnificence
come away
for i have set fire to the fields,
sunk poison into the furrows
i am your lover, and your oblivion 

5 years hence

like looking up suddenly and seeing phantoms of distant past
like running into an alley and subconsciously smiling at a familiar blue door
conscious thought slamming in its wake, reminding, surprising
this sepia page greets me in quite the same way
a fair bit of the decade has passed meanwhile
and one would think words should come more easily
more ideas, more memories to add colour
but a creeping realisation is telling me this needs some else
it needs angst, some unsettledness, a touch of fickleness
a dash of insecurity too perhaps
for i can't find raw all at once
mind you, it wasn't pretty, maudlin too often enough
but raw it was
else one is just industrialising words