Metaphors

Metaphors Run Out

Was that the week, when allegories flew?

Meanings were lost in sincere conversation,

And the metaphor mill stopped grinding?

Demonstrations of love, affection, and concern,

Fell slack as the enemies' guns sad-hiatus,

Words failed, as shutters stealed to...

Silent brooding metaphors, self protection,

A heart's clang, a clicked steel lock,

Towering doubts and incomplete parley.

No black dogs, no silly waving,

No bleeding daffodils, nor endless dreams,

Just a dried-up metaphor well.

No bleeding hearts, lost souls,

No telephonic pleas for clemency,

Pointless behind these walls.

Hearts still beating, under safe roofs,

Food in the pantry, but not for souls,

Gut reaction, purely digestive.

Deeper, darker sadness, impossible explanation,

Connection unbreakable, remains unwatered,

Starved but immortal, sad shutters.

No anger, no fear, just monumental loss,

Infinite ways to expound these feelings,

Evaporated and gone, in plain super-heated drought,

Drying all the metaphors, and parching my love.... desolate-preservation.

  

 

Off Centre

A half-degree from centre

Switching between eye-searing ice-scape

Mountainous valleys, and sweeping, brilliant moors

Then back to patched chaotic nonsense

With radios, photos, tables, candles, cutlery

Mad web-blink then, off-key

Slightly perhaps, I sing my love-song

From behind snow blind burned retinal memory

Like a child, window seat behind closed curtain

Cut-off and uncertain

Repeating a chorus from volcanic depth

Cut off again

Slowly circling, off-pitch, off-centre

Now hum with me and see for me

This half degree from opposites

This near closeness to sheer blind perfection

As lofty cragged ice walls creak worryingly

Stepping back to chaos from this window seat

I watch you in my prejudice

Predeciding the depth of my love

Waving the web away to nothing with casual hand

Before giving my eyes wholly

My tongue, my throat, my lungs,

Your kiss, your window seat, your curtain,

My love song

The one with ever such a disturbing chorus

My ice valleys, my volcano, my chaos

A half degree from centre

A thousand miles to the nearest doubt.

 There are times when words aren't enough. They help though.

A very expensive month so far March, very very blooming costly.....in all sorts of ways.