If I answered- I would be your dusk-
golden flecks- where you lay
your head in slumber- but soon forgotten
in breaking dawn- until the universe
found it’s crescendo again-
and to my addiction- you
writhe in darkness- once more-

Turn to Dust

I met a thought that, on first assumption,
lay at night with brittle hair
and skin as raw as the universe itself.
Yet, as light dawned I knew there were no truths
in the whispers that drift along the cliffs edge.
Reawakening the subtle ties that bind the soul of man
to grounded calling. You called.
You called
and I thought maybe there was something hidden.
Something that was worth the price of crude discovery.
But the nights grow cold and
I am nothing more than tissue paper in the rain.
The single droplet
tears the skin and I, blasphemous in retreat,
only saw the shadow of your hints.
Nothing lasts forever,
and I am less than forever now.
Plunging into waters of ice,
as you never watch for me to rise again.
“A joke”, the joker cried in pitiful merriment,
“was all you were to me!”
And I defend into the recoils of infinity,
marked only as cosmic smut.

Poem © Phen Weston, 2016.

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again

I had stumbled, and wished
that words would not press
so softly against my temple,
that they were your voice
whispering into my eyes,
not just the imagining of my soul.

Plaster cast promises that dissipate
when memories surface that- with
wheres and whens – had never met,
but so many seemed to watch
their woes along the watchtower.

I couldn’t count, and refused to see,
the empathetic reimbursement
of another soul that she- craving
connections in the dark- had borne
in fuel and fire to become the sun.

Yet I was a blank canvas, waiting
impatiently to be absorbed
into her azure eyes- never thought
of as lovers morphed together- but
redemption, redemption, redemption,
denied-flaked away at loosening synapse.

In singular redesigned truths,
that locked away the string
of coarse heat in winter dreams,
she never read my soul, except
as a confession of such hungry guilt.

That guide to heart, but lacks
those forces we find in millennia sold
for show- as we freeze- but super nova
become the circumstance of remorse,
the cycle starts again,
and nothing becomes our dawn.



Poem © Phen Weston, 2016.

Untitled, 18th May 2016.

I wondered if years of grief had hardened my soul
to anything that could not be destroyed, and Gods knew
I’d tried to destroy the world to never grieve again,
cleansing my sins in any water that could be found,
and I threw you away with other embers of my life,
ceremony and fire, looking at the words we left behind.


Poem © Phen Weston, 2016.

Corre lontano chi non torna mai*

The forest fell from fingers
laced without remorse to penumbra,
A prima vista**, wrapped in her breath
of association. I called
and forgot the mulberry needs
to place all in heed, those folding homes
to be the mocked in requiem,
quel ch’è fatto, è fatto***, strong
was her soul and winter winds,
tattered and torn to hide the world,
and promises, promises came
to whittle daydreams in fields
of coarse land, prepared with seeds
that lapse and caress truth,
and I was there in my death,
al fine****, to the end.

*He runs far who never turns
**At first sight
***What is done is done
****To the end


Poem © Phen Weston, 2016.

She wore illicit memories bare
between her fragile lines and
symmetry of engraved desires. Collapsed
in stranger lamented breadth unheard
for all longing, swept away
from hearts. Inward to raging
fires. Her nape pressed against
the winding lather of kismet.
In wants. Overtly staring into
those empty vessels of emotive
hearts and envy’s placed. Sensed.
She sips withered days despair
and passed in those times.
Each night together in dreams,
the song hearth calling free
to shelter her in inner peace.
The radiance encased in fragility,
sharing this rested lonely foreplay.


(This is an acrostic poem, the title is there somewhere)

Poem © Phen Weston, 2016.


I became the splintered copse
dwelling in the ruptured ground.
Chipped at by day, where glaucous
pieces and infidelity drive away
such phantasms in uneven holt.
A pretence that absence shook
across our mind, no naked form.
None entity, nor title, only omission.
I was not there, but alone there now,
the cracks of who, separated and
scuppered, could be more with…
But we are fragmented. Only
left between the komorebi
to filter away such daydreams.

Poem © Phen Weston, 2016.


If I could paint words across the universe
it’s shape would resemble your body- amour fou-
dreams of placing sleep between those
harlequin impressions of virtue- in your eyes
I’d dive to find Atlantis between broken depths-
still and silent- a philosophy
to the sinless- she splinters- fragments
of frozen stars that fall against the shores
of those days we passed by on our way
to atoms that become meaningful when
the voices of your teacher surfaces- the master
to be human- draped through form
as starlight against the naked air- the romanced-
were you thinking of me- as I do you-
I crave and thirst- and collapse with
ferocious lust to fill the skies with those words
I’d write from breast- to hip- to thigh- with contours
that yearn to feel the silhouette of us-
call to me and I’ll place innocence
upon a shelf to gather dust- for you-

But if these weren’t lies- I’d be more the trespasser
to falsehoods- and that would lie- to themselves- I
am my own fool for you- reckless with
those hearts that outpour- to be felt- and I’d fall
through the universe for just one beat-

Poem © Phen Weston, 2016.