Tag: Poems and Lyrics

Sometimes I walk past the station
just to watch departures.
I imagine you somewhere coastal,
hair salted, voice roughened by distance.
I’ve kept your mug—
it stains the same way mine does.

Do you still think of the bridge,
the one we never crossed?

Yes. Every night.
It hums behind the noise of trains
and new conversations.
The bridge was shorter than I feared—
but what a long fall, afterwards.
I’ve learned to pack lightly,
to sleep without roots.
Sometimes, mid-laughter,
I hear the echo of your quiet life
and envy its stillness.

The sea is not freedom,
only motion that never decides.

If we met again,
we would recognise the same ache
expressed in different tenses—
you, the present; me, the perpetual leaving.
Two mirrors angled to infinity,
each reflecting what the other
almost became.

The screen sleeps in my palm,

a small, indifferent moon.

Three dots bloom, then vanish—

a tide that forgets to come in.

I scroll through the last thing you said,

as if re-reading could change the ending.

Outside, the day goes on performing itself:

traffic, a pigeon, a leaf giving up.

Inside, time slows to a buffering wheel,

spinning on the edge of almost.

There’s a grammar to this quiet—

ellipsis, unsent draft,

the faint electric ache of maybe.

When your reply finally lands,

it says nothing extraordinary—

just hey, sorry—

but the world exhales,

and the moon in my hand

brightens again,

like it never learned to wait.

The room smells of chamomile and damp wool.

Outside, autumn is chewing through the trees again.

I tell her it’s fine, really—that the underworld

has better lighting now, soft bulbs instead of torches,

and Hades lets me redecorate.

Still, I keep the curtains closed.

Six months of night leaves you cautious

about what daylight can do.

When spring comes,

the world expects blossoms.

But the soil remembers—

it has held me too long,

and I am tired of rising

only to fall again.

I used to think the pomegranate

was temptation—

now I call it routine:

the sweetness, the stain,

the small surrender I swallow each year.

So I tell her I want to choose—

not between light and dark,

but whether to return at all.

And she nods,

writing something that looks like

freedom,

in pencil,

so it can be erased later.

You are older than my own shadow,

But prophecy has become paperwork,

Miracles are wanted in triplicate.

Overwritten.

Even spells need footnotes now.

I wake to ravens drafting minutes of my dreams;

The trees offer advice I never asked for,

A stream recites failures back to me.

Once, the moon sent an invoice for inspiration.

I only wanted to watch a candle burn

without an interpreter.

But meaning feeds on the marrow of time.

The owls staged an intervention;

Even the stars muttered, “You used to care more.”

The past refuses to stay buried,

It keeps asking for updates.

Healing is forgetting the future—

learning to brew tea

without foreseeing the storm it predicts.

That sounds like peace.

I held the page as though it were shame,

contained in metre, measured in its breath,

each syllable obedient to name

the old inheritance of love and death.

The rhyme was scaffold, strict, unbending steel,

a frame to bind the chaos of the mind,

and yet within that order—pressure, real,

a trembling urge to loosen, to unwind.

So words begin to stumble, break apart,

not fitting in the cages of the line,

the rhythm falters—

   I can’t keep

      this march of steps,

         the rhyme

            drops

               away—

And now the voice runs ragged, spilling

without map, without compass,

a river swollen past its banks,

tearing down fences

until only the raw current

remains.

Song version:

I walk the wide arc of the world,
streets are circling under my feet.
Faces turn like a slow wheel of days,
every step a repeating beat.

I trace the curve of years,
closer, closer still—
all the lines are bending in,
to the centre of my will.

The path bends tight, coil by coil,
pulling me straight to the core.
Every circle falls into silence,
and I don’t wander anymore.
Narrow, still,
it all comes down to you.

Shadows stretch, then fold away,
time unwinds but I stay drawn.
Every road I tried to follow
was a thread that led me on.

I trace the curve of years,
closer, closer still—
all the echoes call me back,
to the one place I can fill.

The path bends tight, coil by coil,
pulling me straight to the core.
Every circle falls into silence,
and I don’t wander anymore.
Narrow, still,
it all comes down to you.

No distance left, no veil, no sound,
just the gravity of your name.
The wheel is broken, the arc is bound—
I arrive where I began.

A universe rests

on the wrist of night,

no larger than a bead

threaded by time’s thin wire.

It clinks softly

against its neighbours—

a cluster of fireflies

framed in glass,

their wings folded in silence.

You might mistake it

for ornament,

something small enough

to slip between fingers;

yet tilt it in the light

and you’ll see whole galaxies

burning in miniature,

Nebulae tilting blue,

and a scatter of supernovas

Singing their names.

The thread loops on,

uncountable,

an armlet of eternities—

and you,

for a fleeting moment,

the body it encircles.

Song version: