Its just grubby

not amazing , not beautiful
as I thought it would be
should be


I am middle aged and tired beyond
weary bones and creaking groans
my soul
an aching muscle
throbbing with the force
of pounding against my own impotence
to change

I can still see magic
hold 
hold that thought
hold that memory 
 
I can still see magic
glowing
in a seared sunset on the horizon
the colours
spill onto the gray oceans upturned face
spread across her cheeks
flow upon her white cap lashes
till she closes her eyes
and the sea
refuses
to see

I can see it but in noway
reach it
my fingers stiffen and swell
balloon into clown hands
all styrofoam smiles
and drooping fingers

I can see it
but not understand what it means now
a distant thing
a forgotten lore
a dream dropped onto the floor
and trod upon by careless feet


 I sometimes kid myself
that all I ever wanted
was to write lovely things
to place words before you
that sing to your cynical ears

that force you to hear the rhythm
and make your soul tap  along to the
infused collection of emotion and image

I sometimes kid myself
that I can still write
the I can push back the velvet caress
of another night
and bring light forth
bring myself back

bring something

anything


other than who I have become