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Haphazard letters scatter a page. The dust, I fear, is far too attracted To the wise and sage, So nothing from the vapid detracts. Today your words are never-ending, Choking the air with nothingness, Where yesterday their words were chiming With intent and reserve you cannot seem to harness. Meandering lines will no rock erode, Nor will a sharp pen, without purpose Vanquish a sword, much less abode. Your ink is dry; let your verbose hand repose. Do not be fickle; be a miser. Only the prudent move mountains. Do not be hasty, do not be enamored by style. A gilded rose is garish and without fragrance. Eloquence without inte

She is the spatter of blood On grass and wildflowers. She is the wine that intoxicates, The wine that leads men to early deaths. She is the thorned rose That snares the heart and stops its pulse. She is the fire and the volcano, unstoppable, Which devoured whole eras and cities. She is the bloodshot eyes and swollen infected wounds Of that woman lying in poverty, and She is the bruise on the neck, The one that destroyed the windpipe. And so they hate her, Fear her. They scorn her, Curse her and defile her name. They ignore her as much as possible, Even when she's right next to them. They dread her, they call her cruel,

Stood I in morning's glow, as the sun grew red and strong. I reached out a hand, and caught the wind by his beard. But he pulled away, too swift and thin, and I was left with a wisp of morning breeze, and when I bent to catch a whiff, I smelt wildflowers, ash and blood, and the sweat of my hands. "Someone's heart has broken, and someone's soul is weeping," said the gentle wind, "for you your mother mourns this day." "But she is well, and safe," I replied, "and has no need of me, as I have none of her." I let the hairs of his beard fall, and turned my back on the scarlet morn.

welcome to vertigo where the sky carves deep into the sun and the flowery moon bleeds gleaming drops where the trees have roots above the birds and the grass grows thickly underhill here that the wolves go calling cold and the lambs tear wolves limb from limb and the streams flow back, up to the stars to join the milky way and the songs of ten thousand wailing souls susan walks up the door, cooing slow the picket fence binds, curling in the child grows younger by the hour and poor susan watches as her brother dies and all the apples in the world could not taste sweeter for here in vertigo the fruits all rot and the only thing

When the doors opened, the only thing she could think to say was, "Why is it so much bigger on the inside?" What had, on the outside, been a nondescript, diminutive apartment block that she would have passed without even noticing, was on the inside a concert hall. "It's quite grand, isn't it?" she marvelled. "I'd say that's an overstatement," her twin snorted. "The only thing you're going nuts, raisins and strawberries over is the lighting." "You only say that because you criticise everything you see," Delusion retorted. To be quite frank, the concert hall was quite ordinary, even if it were larger than what it had appeared to be. The war

i. Perhaps I'm wrong. The road to Heaven is most well-trod only at the start. For many a man has walked this far, then had a change of heart. Further on this uphill path, the grass is overgrown. The ground has tripped countless hopefuls, and backwards had them thrown. ii. Perhaps I should turn back. The road to Hell is more than one, And each was thought to lead to a better vale. To walk on them is to walk on lies and illusions, dreams and hopes, each one beautiful, broken and full of bale. These streets and back-alleys are well-trod all the way, built by he who walks it, he who willingly took this part to play. iii

Notes ring through the air, Clear as larksong, bright as day. The walls, they sing with you, Through the world the song echoes far. Oh, whose hand writes with flair, These golden words do never decay. The musicians, we play true, And the choir hums in harmony. Toss aside all woe and care, Mankind wears a merry face this day. For tonight is the night Santa comes, The eve of a day of giving and thanks and celebration. But after tomorrow's fanfare, Would you still find a way To care, to give, to smile and to good deeds do? Your merry mask, will it char In the last embers of Christmas Day?