The Gaia in You


You count the raindrops
long after they stop falling,
losing count when you reach
two-hundred and seven.

Time means nothing to you
because nothing fills it.

Light once split between your fingers,
but now you see grey,
not every day but most days—
it feels like staring at smudged charcoal
or weeds as they wither and die
or wet cement without a memory.


Something shadows you
like the mountains you dream
of screaming from,
where you’d lose your voice
and break your lungs,
but you’d embrace release,
no matter how much it shreds you,
because you want to feel it.


Sometimes you won’t reach those heights,
so instead you pluck petals from flowers,
tearing and splintering,
thorns slithering beneath skin.

Noise howls past your skull like silence,
and you wonder
how long it will last.


It hushes,
and it is like music.

You wish for the melody to linger.


When it does, you watch the ocean
as the moon reflects its face
on the water—
it looks like blurry stars in a rippling galaxy.

Peace makes you think,
and you think about
cracking open your ribs,
peeling back skin and bones.

Will you find only mangled flesh and darkness?

You find other things,
like roots dancing over your heart,
buried beneath soil and blood,
warmed and fed by your breaths.

You glimpse something close to a garden,
and you hope that soon
flowers will bloom.


And bloom they will.

Yet another poem that was sitting in a file, waiting to be seen.

The Messenger

Ghosts appear everywhere—
abandoned cemeteries with worn-out names,
haunting the house on the corner of the street,
hospitals lingering with their cries.

One woman comes to me in the night
with her cob-webbed body and face made of dust,
like an aged ornament finally taken out
from behind a glass cabinet,
and she sits on the edge of my bed,
her bones creaking and skin cracking,
mouth stretching into a slice of skeleton teeth.

Please, she says, tell her I love her.

Her memories are cold and grey,
invading my mind like the wallowing of her soul,
and I see blank faces and hear static words,
losing grasp on the reality she once lived,
showing me only the hints of presence—
rain-damp fingers, stained smiles, clinging touches.

She leaves with a trail of bare footprints,
dissolving into ashes like the end of a fire,
once burning, once lighting the way,
and I sit in the suffocating darkness,
echoing her words over and over,
as though they are my own.

A random poem that has been sitting in a file for some time.

Who Am I

Who am –
I am me,
the late-night thinker, who
reads thirty books
a year, and listens to the wind as
it howls along the walls.

And, yes, I like the way he holds
my hand, and I like the way she
smiles at me. It is not the only
thing that defines me. See the
freckles smattered over my nose
and that my eyes are blue;
This is who I am –

It isn’t much to ask of you,
who I will always be,
that you look at me, see me, today,
the same way you did before,
and that don’t you dare
look anywhere else.

Your Way

Be the one who does things your way;
gazing at the open spaces between blossom trees,
soaking in the sun of a cloudless winter day,
and watches rainfall for over two hours—

speaks about why you loved a recent read,
or paint a not-so-good picture that you still hang,
walk through museums until the night,
and take photos of everything and anything—

parties until the early morning,
travels the world from Cornwall to New York,
or stays inside for a day or more,
but most of all enjoys every moment of it.

Be the one who does things your way,

or perhaps be the one who doesn’t;

it’s still a way.