❦Clay Coloured❦

I

My love first bloomed
when I caught sight of you
and then - how it grew!
Once, twice thrice - each day a little taller,
unparalleled in height and power.
It’d touch the sun with its pistils
until one day they caught on fire
and my poor love withered.

II
My tower is tall and steady,
built out of cut rocks and tenderness,
each swipe of mortar a sweet caress,
each climbing ivy-vine a reminder.
Those heart-shaped leaves would beat faster
each time someone called my name.
But as time went on
the cracks started to show
and my tower began to crumble.

III
My hands hold on to all that is
heavy, pale, light, sun kissed,
dark and evil, good and fair,
but you, you slip through my fingers.
No matter how hard I grasp
some frightened hare beats a path
up my winding wrist
and I fidget and twist
whilst you make your escape.

IV
My dress is torn and filthy
though I haven’t left my bed in days.
Long, tattered rags run like rope
down the sides of it,
and what was once pearlescent shimmer
is now river rock grey.
Pretty below the surface,
dull and drab when above.
Each breath I take, the fabric holds it.

V
My watch went silent some time ago.
Steadfast tick-tock gone silent,
and outside the cuckoo’s silent too.
I shut my eyes and imagine
a baby’s soft babble, your gentle coo-coo
overpowering the kettle-drum thrum
of blood inside my skull.
A pugilistic attempt to escape the silence
or imitate that lost metronomic pulse.

VI
My love sits waiting like an old crone,
humming a song about what’s lost
and found in the gaps
between then and now, and who and when.
Old age, no grave, expecting guests
at any moment now, the table’s set
for two, just the one.
Who keeps neglecting their invitation?
Never even glancing inside the envelope.

VII
My hope wades through the shallows
clad in fresh white robes,
looking for a treasure lost:
‘Oh, I had it with me, I swear!’
Last seen somewhere between there and here,
last seen when you used to care,
last seen when you ran your fingers through my hair-
‘I’ll get you pearls and pretty thing, I swear!’
Hope keels over and something breaks there.

VIII
My grave was dug and left open
like a black wound,
a perfectly rectangular piece of skin
lifted from the epidermis of the planet.
When I go to lay in it
I’m struck by the height of the walls
and width of the flattened floor.
It seems the hole is both tall and wide
enough for the both of us.

IX
My love has no mind of his own.
He’s an empty husk, a clay vessel
waiting to be filled by my magic.
Eight words to rest in his mouth and belly:
Compassion, trust, desire;
firm beliefs ignited this fire.
Nine words he speaks back to me:
Anger, violence, power
are all the things I desire.