As complex as simple is.
Running on empty,
just the vapours of my mind,
sparking a little.
The clock is ticking,
a rhythm like a sausage,
long thin and tasty.
The passage of time,
flows fast through narrow channels,
that is my daytime.
I didn’t finish, the midnight hour came too soon, and then that was it.
The week is too long, just another day to go, then I can relax.
Sitting in darkness,
just feeling the dark keyboard,
and writing want comes.
The silly questions,
that rise in the dark nightime,
lit with a full moon.
To run far away,
just go somewhere so distant,
somewhere I could hide.
The dragon have gone,
so they would have us all think,
as they watch us still.
Wednesday’s a drain,
mid week and downhill from here,
to a Monday off.
My coffee is hot,
it waiting steaming and hot,
and so it will wait.
How does my mind feel,
like a dull hum and a whine,
like squashed tomatoes.
I never do know,
what I will write when I start,
and it’s a surprise.
The rain wash away,
what remained of their attack,
and it felt normal.
He rolled the paper,
and tucked it under his arm,
and walked down the road.
It is days like these,
he thought, walking down the road,
to the old churchyard.
The gate was heavy,
solid oak, that creaked alot,
as he opened it.
The graveyard before,
looked old and so inviting,
he loved this old stuff.
He looked for Evans,
Henry Evans was the one,
and there his grave lay.
And there his gravestone,
were the runic tales he sought,
but they must be right.
He copied them down,
each letter as it appeared,
then would disappear.
Most would find this strange,
but this what he expected,
and just what he got.
Welcome to this site,
don’t mind the dog, it won’t bite,
it is just for show.
It was a wet day,
and the skies opened today,
from heavy grey clouds.
Is it really May,
I recall it much warmer,
sunny and quite nice.
I have put on weight,
not much but it is enough,
for me to notice.
My site needs more fun,
if that is what website do,
like some more colour.
The low down on them,
what a question, I must say,
they do have secrets.
Dragons are shy beasts,
poor eye sight but great hearing,
and they can move fast.
The legends do tell,
of the great flights of dragons,
that did roam about.
In the age of knights,
deep in the dark, dark ages,
where just tales exist.
Eron the Braveheart,
could weild a seven foot sword,
so fast with one hand.
He was known by all,
a man above men and brave,
to the very core.
He had killed plenty,
but this day, he killed twenty,
until they got him.
His name is in stone,
the runes tell the brave story,
ofdragon slayer.
The first casualty,
of any major conflict,
or war, is the truth.
Can you speak the truth,
in hot debate and be heard,
for the truth it is?
Be checking each word,
so they hear it as it’s said,
without any doubt.
Pictures tell a truth,
whatever the seer wants,
or the people want.
Four things abouts them,
they’re huge, they fly and breath fire,
and collect treasure.
Dragons like to sleep,
for centuries they will doze,
unless you wake them.
Where do dragons live,
underground in large caverns,
could be anywhere.
Anywhere peaceful,
that is cool, dark and quiet,
where they store their stuff.
Time to have a sleep,
is always on their small minds,
along with eating.
The night they attacked,
was a terrible event,
that scarred land and man.
The trees yielded burnt,
just as many that stayed there.
and felt the furnace.
The book is open,
the pages are left spread out,
depicting a scene.
The sky was blood red,
a dragon flew across it,
with flames shooting forth.
A terrible scene,
and the people looked so small,
and they clothes were rags.
Situations come,
brimming with succulent things,
and makes mouths water.
Nothing comes my way,
at least that is how I feel,
I hope I am wrong.
Wind doesn’t settle,
restless like the clouds above,
it ‘s ever moving.
The earth’s spinning round,
creating vortecies,
that circle the world.
A crime of passion,
leaves a scarred and heavy heart,
that will never heal.
The coffee mug steams,
proud and hot it knows it’s worth,
for this moment now.
Do dragons exist?
I counter, “Do you believe?”
And open a book.
Thick heavy pages,
slow turn to show images,
that will make you stare.
The dark ancient text,
runic and scribbled in black,
and sometimes in red.
It appears to change,
there before ytour very eyes,
and almost makes sense.
Dare you speak these words?
Uttering verses of old.
and feeling them grow.
Try and try again,
then it tips and goes too far,
so you must proceed.
It is now unlocked,
and the page begins to spin,
drawing you inside.
I have made it through,
through the week and through Friday,
to a place of rest.
Is it really rest?
The thing pile up like mountains,
demanding I climb.
My music suffers,
the things to do and get done,
that’s no way for fun.
I have a offer,
a new job that looks quite good,
and wonder should I.
Choices are a plague,
on decisions and choosing,
but it’s good to try.
The fish is cooking,
more warming up with some chips,
not like I caught it.
So, why are you here?
I ‘m asking pointing at you,
trying to cause fear.
Ten broken crayons,
seem so many and varied,
though each one smaller.
The night cloaks the land,
and the east wind stirs the trees,
that sounds like the sea.
Never apologise,
if you think you’re in the right,
and when you are not.
He rattled the cage,
waiting for the beast to rage,
attacking the bars.
The spell check is on,
and so I have to check it,
and make sure it’s right.
The time’s slipping by,
some say that it is too shy,
to stop and say hi.
The seconds look back,
just for a nanosecond,
a slight blur in time.
The mobile has stopped.
it doesn’t move and is still,
it begins to ring.
So any road home,
will do on a winters night,
when it’s cold and dark.
The pencil leads on,
around the page in circles,
some call a scribble.
The tension’s rising,
and people are realising,
they own true passion.
The fog closes in,
like a veal of white or sin,
that conceals a crime.
The blood drips and drips,
from the pointing finger tips.
into a cold pool.
