oh to bring back last year

Oh, to bring back this time last year
such joy and bliss
Holding hands down Chmaps Elysses
young love in Paris

But all young love must turn old
and it gathers dust
The summers heat became winters cold
And froze our lust

And i walk in gloom under christmas lights
Now alone and grim
With a dull ache that grips and blights
every ageing limb

And though much time has now passed
As it ever will
My longing feelings do hold fast
For you haunt me still

You

You are my past, you are haunting my present and your absence fills my future.

You are Paris, Copenhagen, York, London, Stone henge, Stansted, Lincoln, Hastings, Ingleborough, Grately, Amesbury, Folkstone, Battle, Rye, Warrior Square and more.

You are J.D Salinger, stranded on moonfleet bay, only Puk for company, you are Treasure Island, Oscar Wilde, Vincent Van Gogh, Ensore, Gauguin and Cezanne. You are a futurist, you are shockingly new, the curse of the mona lisa is upon me now. You are German expressionism, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner. You are latin America, Tanzania and Tinga Tinga.

You are National Geographic, a Giraffe, Hedgehog, Jack Russell and a Mexican street dog hiding under a bed, teeth bared, curious children trying to caox it out. The tears i hold back as i wrote those lines.

The dirty, loud underground and all the rats within, who are more compassionate than the humans trapped in carriages, tearing through the dark. You are vegan, vegetarian, a hippie painting machine, a liar and a cheat.

You are forgiven. You are missed. The tears, whose siege on my fortitude was not in vain.

You are a tree in Warrior Square gardens, you are the laundrettes, room 410 and 305. The corridor in 305 and the crescent moon outside the window of 410.

You are the number nine, simply because when written down it looks like your name.

You are all of the things i've forgotten to mention. Your Guitar. You are seasons in the sun...or at least you were. My Tivoli duck. Let us hug in a red blanket under the Scandinavian sun.

You are my heart and your absence leaves my life without a beat or the rythm needed to progress with a swagger. So i stagger through these obstacles.
`
You are all of the above but you are nothing i have known before.

You are gone.

If only you were here i could be all of the above too.

What is left for me?

Life is a bed of hot coals.

Fire walking:

The 'secret' is simply a combination of 2 things.

1) Having a strong mind, it is mind over matter, you feel a slight pain but keep moving.

2) Move quickly, stop to think and it will start to hurt and you will sink into the coals.

If this isn't a metaphor for how to live everyday life then the term 'metaphor' should be discarded from the dictionary.

Indecisive

How confused the days now seem
they snap from hot to cold
Back again, the sun does beam
yet cannot take a hold.

On the edge of my front door
I have to stop to think
There i stand forever more
I'm always on the brink.

One small step would set me free
but first you must decide
Hot or cold, please let me be
and pick your favourite side.

If cold wins out then fine by me
I'll bear the winter bite
But make your choice rapidly
before day turns into night.

A last goodbye

What is clearly passion you label rage
and you say i seethe, but i cannot cage
this tempest in me which blows too strong
and so what choice is left, but to just move on?
To sail this ship to new blue seas
to grit my teeth and get off my knees
to enjoy the view with eager eyes
and trace the faces as time flies
for many new ones there are bound to be
to replace the old that mean the world to me.
and If we should meet when our faces are lined
and hours spare we manage to find
then sit with me and i'll keep you warm
in moonfleet bay throughout the storm,
and exchange tales of the last long years
with many 'what ifs' and regretful tears
for the tale of our lives should be told as one
but if you have to leave i must move on.

A detached reply.

Shun i do not, but i must now leave
You say tis love in you, but i see you seethe,
and tis the temper in you and not the tempest
which, regardless of self talk, you cant resist
and so it rises up and blows too strong
gets behind your sail and steers you wrong.
Your eyes do cloud, but the mist is red,
angry thoughts, on loving words unsaid,
have left you hot, whilst i stand here cold
but i may yet thaw as the year grows old
a stark contrast to the seasons at hand
Autumn and winter, making their deathly stand.
I could not ask you to sit and wait
yet i do beseech you, think of me when you think of fate.

The lover's plea

I beseech you, Shun me not!
For the love i harbour thee cannot be got
by trivial means or much self talk
and cannot be stoppered like champagne with cork.
For this tempest in me will overflow
and spill from my eyes if thou dost go
And so my eyes become the clouds, dense and grey
That cast a fog upon each day
which obscures my vision and steers me wrong
And the world seems big, a maddening throng.
With such small steps i cannot prevail
to escape this crowd and so i fail
to make small progress every day
and yearn to hear you say you'll stay.