Heavier than blood

Things heavier than blood

rush to my head,

swirling around and filling it up,

right up to the top

bringing my head down,

shadow inch by shadow inch.

My eyes are the next to go,

each lid stumbling down

falling faster

until their closed,

cutting me off from the world in front of me.

My muscles march and follow suit,

leaving me with shivers

that had nothing to do with the cold.

I’m up against a wall

and things heavier than blood

drop me to the ground.

Mists

Pearly cold mists

draped over trees,

a thickening fog

hanging all over the place.

Creeping and crawling

slowly it goes,

watch it play it’s little game.

Chilly testaments of a fading sun

and lingering fogs

cling and glitter across

dappled greens sinking into a fiery gradient.

Silly sports

What faulty wire

requires I prefer

ink and words to sport and games?

Some silly structure up top,

dictating rhymes and patterns

instead of thinking about the next game,

scoring a goal, or pointing my toes.

What pray tell,

brought this all about?

Out of 46 genes,

which one spoke up and said

libraries were better playgrounds?

Synchronicity

I think

memories have voices

hopeful, uplifting tones,

and sad, haunting notes.

Dark or light, each one

as beautiful as the next,

twisting the veins and strains of life

together,

harmonious blends of

body and mind.

Drippy weather

Raindrops keep falling on my head

down they drip,

falling, falling down my nose,

sinking their way down to the floor.

The water is steady, stable,

an endless procession of drips and drops

relentlessly abandoning the sky,

a stale slate of concrete, speckled with rain.

Clouds tumble on in,

a drawing of curtains

darkening the stage, all the streets.

The light dies with the minutes,

night finally pouring in, filling in the cracks.

The trees and their leaves shudder with the night,

for not even the trees

are impervious to this weather.

The perpetual soul

He was old,

older than most, when we first met.

His face was wrinkled,

deep groves splayed all across his face,

pushed deeper and deeper

into flesh by constant laughter;

a daily routine.

His hands were gnarled and scarred.

His was a life of labour, he said.

A labour of love, he added.

The older he got, and the more I knew.

It seemed as if

the more depleted his body got,

in riches his soul grew,

ever expanding.

His fragility was always around,

hanging between us

drifting like an ocean mist,

in and out,

in and out.

He was old,

older than most.

But that was just his body.

Because in the end, a soul like his

was ageless.