It's just before xmas, and these poems have nothing to do with it

4 poems, written on a bus during a storm


You speak of failure yet you jest
For your world failed me first.
You speak of duty’s obligations
But not its subjugation.
Your words are honeyed in dew
But somehow all the colder too.



The windows are covered in rain, and the sky
Is darkly pale, devoid of shapes or meanings.
Even those who walk between raindrops
Cannot help but be touched by the rain.
Uncomfortable people huddle in the shelter of cold clothes.
The damp warps them, hunched like wood.
In miserable impatience scurrying.




We go too far when we forget
How far is left to go.
Obscured by rain
The world has grown
Dark and dangerous.
But every blurred light
Becomes a star
And rain, we know
Can end in bows.



The wonder of the imperfection of it all
We have nothing left to stand on at all:
The only gift given us is to fall;
Babies to tits we cling to the wall.