Shattered

                                        (Image from Farm3.staticflickr.com)

Shut out, shattered

Indifference is a slap, a punch, a kick

Repeated, it feels like a mugging

It’s pain all its own

Feeling unwanted, unloved is death

Where the heart beats

but is unfeeling

The soul tries to soar,

falls each time

To be told you are loved

Talk to you soon

Then silence as deafening

as a graveyard afternoon

Better off dead with the dead

Nothing for nothing

Guilt and shame hid but seen, felt

like love deceased, useless

Fake Petals

                          (Image from Th05.deviantart.net)

In the lay of the land
the rose lies.
Dead by its own hand
the regretful cries.
Slit its wrist
red sap bled.
Guilt is a cyst
be on my head.
Nothing is true
sad card overplayed.
Stop whining the blues
you chose your bed.

The Land Of Ire

The land of ire
is not far
from anywhere.
It is a word
and an act away,
at arm’s length.

It has two seasons:
warm and burning.
The devil was born
in this place;
hands curled
in a fist,
with no face.
He exults every time
someone settles
there, here.

Guilt is the only rain
allowed in the land of ire.
It is a worm gnawing
on rotting flesh on a silent battlefield.

Ballads and lyrics
like bullets litter the ground;
gestures mean,
words with no sound.