Poem: Afterwards

We pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off and try continuing. 
I have grey hat that makes my eyes look blue
And four hundred and sixty three books gathering dust
That swirls in the evening sunlight, as it always was. 

I launch myself into the evenings, the night is better, 
The days are getting longer and smothering us in light. 
I wear dark glasses and hide in the corner of the pub 
Waiting for the bitter sun to fade away. 

At midnight I come home and dance in the dark, 
I dream that I am flying over the city alone 
But when I wake my hands are clenched in fists, 
Head thumping and churning stomach sick. 

Whiskey in your morning coffee makes you warm, 
But the Winter is nearly over. I need to wear leather gloves 
So I do not touch the filth of the world, perhaps I can buy lace 
In summer colours, so it does not seem so strange. 

There are four thousand and seventy six paving stones between here and work, 
I am careful not to step on the cracks between them. Cobblestones are harder 
But I am trying to come up with another arrangement. 
Can you come back now please?

Afterwards, I carefully saved up every moment, 
They are bottled and waiting in the corner, when you return 
We will open them and let time flow out, it will be like music. 
I do not make big wishes anymore.

2011-05-02

The bogeyman is dead.
Can we have the world back now
As it was? 
A time before we brought our children out
To dance in the streets and celebrate the creation of a corpse.
Can we have an end to wars with movie names
And sending boys off to kill and die for slogans.
Can we mourn without vengeance now.