as the years pass

It is harder to hold to
dreams as the years
pass. They slip like
gossamer in a wind,

which teases, irritable
and disconcerting, as
if it had been planned,
for just these times;

so do we enter the
days of the mundane,
the real, the practical,
without the shawl of

fantasy, to blur the
bitter edges, soften
the hard shapes -
create possibilities

for those we love,
and all of the things
we thought we might
do and be, in this

allotted time. Does
it matter? Or is this
how it was always
meant to be in a

slow process of
waking up, before
the last true moment
of awakening?

Sleep

The covers pulled,
the bed prepared,
ready to receive,
the body naked
with all removed,
no face to show
the world, just
simple flesh and
being, just self
and soul and me;
how easy is that
resting where
nothing does
deceive.

The crack

In that faint crack
on the far wall,
my eye rested, as
if too weary to

wander further, or
as if the break in
the facade, so fine
demanded to be

seen, called out
to be recognised
as a light tearing:
like my heart. 

Change

There were times when
we heard each other, and
loved each other, almost
understood each other;

but those days are gone,
it seems and only deep
misunderstanding lives
in you, and perhaps also

echoes in me, unknown.
It is as if we lost our way
and the knowledge we
once had, each of the

other, walking in the
same world, and yet not;
shape-shifting through
familiar places, but each

seeing with strange eyes
which would not let us
recognise the faint shape
of who we both were.