Onto back,

turned and

onto back again;

Heading for

the edge

of the world,

don’t walk

so far

you fall

off the edge

of my dream.

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A hiraeth is a homesickness: spring waiting with a cure.

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Could have

painted pictures,

instead carried

up a corpse.

Walked away

with roses,

two stranded thread

for warps.

Behind,

an empty tomb

lined with

metallic gold.

Blued palms,

legs and arms,

part of the soul

I sold.

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I and the you

this is me,

know what

it means

to let it be.

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Asked with tongue,

and your heart replied.

Not drifting,

it’s a summer tide.

Strangers in a crowd,

side-by-side.

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Painful watching the dead die a second death.

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Life

Mirrored man

of mind’s eye;

I heard

them sing,

your line

falls short.

Walk tall,

along that

cold blue floor.

On arid land,

from sand,

to shore.

Your hand

in mine,

taking my line

as yours.