“Be bad, but at least don’t be a liar, a deceiver!”
― Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

You watch my hands for signs
of life in those old patient stubs
where abscence locks and bind,
and ministers hide the rights to love.

Of sun and promises, grasped
in truths. All the weird and wonderful.
Serendipity of the fallen cove,
locked and more, all
the words that collapse
and reminisce in shattered memories.

Further than the sprawling cries
of all the worlds she could despise.
What were those condemned
that I spoke to in shallow rivers?
Knocked and dried in relapse, and tried
to be the forever of your dreams.

Come to life as sharp emotive crime.
The lover of a dream,
the feather on a windy night.
The call of paramour in strong flight
designed for all.
The broken promises of life,
inspired and deviant to that which died.

Corpse of love, corpse of dreams,
corpse of destiny and pleas!
And futures in the last depression.
Paramour paramour paramour.

Of strong and calculated design,
of silver forked lies
to those in entered distance.
“Oh Stop This” the wind howled
to her children in dying light.

How can the world fall
so far from morning showers?
In empty streets of Amsterdam?
Liar liar liar.

The fallen blooms drop to ash
on dead laden streets. Lacking
in the night those draped stars
told with all those beautiful truths.
Liar liar liar.

All those spawn filled faithless haze
that stamp across the skies and drop
the last impressions of your amour
into the bleakness of those parted days.

Lacerations to the heart
that only echoes the once beat,
and emptiness plagues each minute
without your soul
in a world of only empty streets.

Poem © Phen Weston 2016


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