I Wonder If You Always Tell The Truth

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I met a girl who claimed

she cast the moon in the image

of a dead man’s breath

blowing through the sulphuric

sound that surrounds the sum

of our silences.

In this still point, where words

shatter from their sentence,

crash through cacophony

and die an onomatopoeic death,

she lived inside a metaphor

of her loves.


It was one of those moments

when words will say only half

of the nothing we are thinking.


I met a girl who snapped

the bones of winter from the earth,

bent them to a frozen form of birth

and buried them beneath the

gravelled snow, to bloom once more

from summer's grave.

And when she told me love

is the last sentiment to die,

the groundquaking dawn

drummed through the legend

of her eye its solitary note,

razing the night.


It was one of those moments

when words will fill only half

of the void we are living.


I met a girl who believed

in the endless repetition of time.

That day she sat upon my palm

and taught me how to hold a dream,

love tipped the Libran scale

to perfect balance.
There is a halcyon colour to the sky,

where, adrift on the sea of her

eye on a collision course with

my horizon, I thank the star

that guides my tideturned vessel



It is one of those moments

when words will write only half

of the memoir we are making.