So many faces I have seen,
So many places I have been,
So many distances I have run,
Such moonshine, such sun,
So many feelings curbed low,
So much I let flow,
So many things I must say,
Now, it must all be in grey.
So many dreams came to pass:
Some were diamonds, some glass.
A few too many hearts betrayed,
But then, there were those that stayed.
So much of life flashed on by,
Yet I am not quite ready to die.
So much of pain and loss and grief,
With quite enough joy to bring relief.
So many faces, dead and gone,
And yet I am never alone.
So much love I have known,
I have lived,
I have learnt,
I have grown.

Once upon a week

If you make love once a week,

You’re still in love,

They say.

I am confused.

Modernity has made

A breath, over the ear

That reaches down

Into the reddest corpuscle,

Into a statistic.

How many words

Indicate love then?

How intense should be

A look?

How long should be

A kiss?

How many pages are

Too many,

Too little,

For a book?

Should the book be read

Fast or slow?

If you cannot read me,

Then who would know?

It takes time

It all takes time.

The sun is brighter,

The snow caps lighter.

Statistics abound.

The world is ending.

The sun was too hot

For humanity.

The sun will win.

But their stats

Can not predict the when.

I know the breath.

I know the book.

I know the sun.

I know the look.

In relation to me.

Give me the stat

And I will accept it and

Place it to read

Years later.

If the sun hasn’t won until then,

I’ll validate the importance

Of a week.


Both dead to the world

If only my brain would cease to function

Like theirs does

On call, sleep.

Worry gnaws my inside

And crawls into my brain

Like a –

Slug in slow motion.

But sleep comes to them so easy

Like their brains never functioned

And their hearts never felt.

It must be nice to never know a slug.