Winter is her weakness
a body trapped in bleakness
shaking and aching
the darkness enchanting
her hopes bequeathed
as she falls like leaves
windows fill with teariness
as she is locked inside by weariness
waiting to see again
waiting to hear again
waiting to sing again
Tomorrow starts with latte
the fuel of fearful Friday
and the fire inside her ignites
as Winter continues to bite.
Like an old weary discontinued doll
She breathed all her music to her last breath
and now she is thrown down the dark rabbit hole
no one wants her, there is no one left.
Tears streaming down those glossy plastic eyes
her dreams deflated like an old balloon
times bumps and bruises can not be disguised
as her heart drifts further from the blue moon.
The truth radiates through these broken parts
a truth that cannot be written or said
a truth that has been there right from the start
whispering quietly inside her head.
They say it’s better to have loved and lost
so cherish the moments before they are tossed.
Postcards picture perfect days
that magnified glasses will betray
these fantastical notions
of still quiet oceans.
A mind, like a carousel spinning
knows something is missing
like a broken doll part
all alone from the start.
Dancing to someone else’s beat
unable to feel her own feet
a marionette of expectations
pulls away in every direction.
All I need is someone to lean on
a strong arm to keep me strong
A kindred spirit to harness
the secrets and the darkness.
Postcard pictures perfect days
that hazel eyes will betray
with the worn imperfections
of a weary souls reflection.
Twilight thinking composes my next verse
The essence of my dreams dance in the sky
my life unwritten, a show unrehearsed
I want to be someone before I die.
I see her long frosted chestnut hair
lending her ears to life, her eyes are shut
creaking along with her old rocking chair
humming quietly by her lake side hut.
A lifetimes of words floating through her mind
a verbal orchestra telling her tale
a library of moments capturing her time
her life was for rent and now it’s for sale.
Twilight thinking of where I want to be
And where I want the song to end for me.
It’s suspended reality
above an open valley
breathing the serenity
in awe of the immensity.
Urban eyes sense tranquility
sense the natural harmony
far away from the city
a refuge washing over me.
Stationed
suited soldiers
watch the battlefield
thunder
roars, rattles
through moving metal
bells
ring loud
commences the fight
to exit trams
at peak hour
I am a canine Sherlock
a bouncy snowy white
rising when the sun comes up
ready for the fight.
I search the perimeter
check on my family pack
they are always sleeping
while I am securing the back.
Winged enemies taunt me
as they hop along the fence
fluttering out of reach
I have no defence.
So I bark across the garden
and trip over abandoned shoes
try to alert my people
but they don’t have a clue.
They shout my name plenty
from the warmth of their beds
Jasper snoring loudly,
but waking him is waking the dead.
My name is Ollie
I am snowy white
I’m the leader of my family
and my barks worse than my bite.
Charlie, Charles or Chum
whispered ‘Carpe Dium’
in an empty wood
going nowhere, she stood.
justice at what cost?
All that’s left is Winters wrath
the game now
something that happened
the silence
reflections haunted
the show goes on
humanity’s last bow
tainted forever
Inspired by the bards birthday and it being St Georges Day in England. Love my homeland…
My soul searches all the small ancient nooks
but the verbal spaghetti isn’t clear
despite the exhaustive amounts of books
I say, Happy Birthday Mr. Shakespeare.
England’s heart beats for you and our St. George
April twenty-three painted red and white
stories of dragons falling to his sword
and your words immortalised in the night.
The sun rises and we are still breathing
ancient castles, vast woods, and national pride
shaping the might of Albion’s dreaming
twisting and turning along with the tide.
I am a child of this lovely island
with her future out there on the horizon.
Charlie Ann Alford 
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