But desolateI took a telescope to the skyand saw no life.No message,no god.I saw stars and planets,All empty,And our own isolation Our view bright but desolate.
Pale FishPale fish seen through blue window paine,Behind net curtains, touching the glass,Leaving behind prints and breath,Drawings in condensation,A face with a smile,A sunbecause the beams don't penetrate through the double glazing.Daisies which don't grow inside.And the playing children seen through the blue,Who laugh at, not with,Until until, pale fish, she drowned.'Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,She turns to favour and to prettiness.'Flipped and flopped.Wasn't found for weeks.
A DeathI think things matter less,When you get older,But the small things mean more,The kiss in the evening,And the smile in the morning,And the endless endless nothing,The waiting until the end,I'll choose the font on my gravestone,And pick my slice of soil,My upturned grass,My coffin, made of willow,At least the details,I can control,If not the odds and ends.If I planned it all,The days after my last,I still won't know what to say,In the last moment,Feel I ought to,Really,Or should I go in silence,An unsettling silence,No closure,And no wasted words,Just a blurred line,And a flower I didn't see by the bed.Thank you all the same.