Before Rain in July

The cotton-wool clouds above seem oblivious to my dissonance.
It should have been a beautiful day.
The azure sky remains etherized with neglect and longing.

The apricot Sun above is parched, almost withered as the salted land it illuminates grudgingly.
It is too bright, too bright for comfort.

O how I long for the comfort of the pale blue moonlight
on the thorny thistle bush,
weeping with the dew for another night with you.

But the apricot Sun is desiccated, almost decimated
as my saltwept hopes
 and those rainswept thistle flowers,
for which it is too bright, too bright for comfort.

The cotton-wool clouds above seem to patronize my discordance.
It should have been a beautiful day.

Space

There's nothing wrong
with space between cities and stars.
Kilometres, lifetimes, light years,
I was sure you'd never be too far.

Sometimes space was just an
inch between your face and mine.
Sometimes it was the space between two floors,
Sometimes it was the space between two car doors.
Sometimes space was an anomaly,
 and our fingertips met.
Space Oddity,  but just sometimes.

Now you're only sitting a table away.
It's like you never went away.
But the distance in your gaze
 is difficult to fathom.
and I'm falling here,
falling through a chasm.

There's nothing wrong
with space between cities
as long as the affinities
between two hearts last.
But now it's a thing of the past.

Queen

When I was young,
I longed for love,
Through trapdoors below,
and canopies above.

Got tired of giving more
than taking what I need.
Made me think,
somehow there's safety
in killing the seed.
It's boring but safe,
when you don't even bleed.

When love comes and goes,
though you resist,
Mood clouds pour around,
you spend your days
feeling pissed.

Could it be there is more to Life?
Than collecting and planting
the lies in their eyes,
flowering into compromise?

 When nothing is right,
cry yourself to sleep.
But in the morning,
read the magazine,
 and remember-
You're still a Queen,
with your dirty feet
and your tambourine.

Dear Frenemy

Dear Frenemy,
once you said to me,

"Look, it's as plain as
sand touching the sea,
as simple as this piano-
and its broken keys:

Ivory and Ebony,
that's all we'll ever be."

You add, forgetfully,
"That's the one I used to play before."

I say, regretfully,
"Couldn't agree more!
 We're only binary,
Only ebony and ivory,"

As I walk out the door.
And go and write in my diary-

'I wonder if he knew,
or even considered true,
how a prism splits light,
ironically, white.
into a damned spectrum.
What a conundrum!'

Winter was supposed to arrive.