40.

Photographs strobe beneath lids
echo from one year to the next,
determined flashes
regurgitating phantoms,
specks ingrained
self absorbing,
once alive.

Tenderness
captures the black
and the not so white,
smudging realism
torn by rigid belief.

Voices
of the kaleidoscope collide.

© 2009 Michael J. Earnshaw

Room 119

Ambers light half my night,
spirits lashed consume
Sunday service,
collection tin bankrupt
bar a few pennies, heaven
teasing the misguided notion
of eternity

Gideon sells the lie,
a warrior in God’s name
placed with every sordid interlude
upon the king in room 119,
judged
I grasp the final gasp

Honour quelled with vanity
broken, drowned
as the rolling blanket draws me in,
tears hung by a thread spliced
finely cut, my cross to bear, disdain
tongue draped and dry
upon the desert, each halo alight.

© 2009 Michael J. Earnshaw

The Traveller.

Aching miles of golden grain whisper:

‘We are your malice
your holy grail
and you will be mine,
eternal’.

The flame of desire quivering
within your palms clutching
the edge of reason,
severed by your homeland,
poorer for all you know is lost

The four winds howling in unison
mock your majestic mind,
call your names, one by one
for here is where you belong
to no-one.

© 2009 Michael J. Earnshaw.

Untitled - Charcoal Sky.

A charcoal sky blackens the horizon
paints anger across it’s paths,
patiently awaits the rumble
three miles south,
flocks flee the funnel
driving oblivion,
caressing with it’s hands
leaving torrential tears
tearing at wanton wounds
howling

‘The end is nigh, bye, bye my love, bye bye.’

© 2009 Michael J. Earnshaw.

Our War.

Sincerity slain upon the last sunrise
captured, images of night
brutalised beyond sanity,
cradled to death
love torn.

Reason smothered by dust’s scent
begging forgiveness,
needling paradise, sobbing
widows entrenched
despair.

Slivers of cold slice the blood
congealed, madness
holding tight, petrified
the silent scream carved
in stone.

Heavy hearts hang from decades
decayed, splintered tears
seared, the moonlit shame
torched at dawn, this is
our war.

© 2009 Michael J. Earnshaw.

The Wake.

Washed upon isolation’s ride,
smile crippled by fate’s
entourage, wistful clouds
pass the mind’s eye
watering stale ale

Sorrows drowned, appetites
consumed as melodies
crack the silence, beat
the heart into submission,
deceive the snapshot

Sixty-nine years
thrown by the wayside.

© 2009 Michael J. Earnshaw.

The Will.

My favourite shirt that holds secrets
I’ve yet to share,
the white one with embroidered lace
you cherish,
one thousand and fifty six records
not played since 1999,
the books owned from age fifteen
collecting dust

And spider’s webs
are yours to keep.

My written words of capitulation
hide my true worth,
the sudden depths of loneliness
you will search,
the music of my mind disguised
in free form,
your tears tattooed to your face
freezing in time

Lullabies confide
mine to keep.

The sound of all your tomorrows
withdraw to slumber.

© 2009 Michael J. Earnshaw