Every-Cloud

Fickle. Chapter Six: Whispers coursed through the crowds in the hall; murmurs by the musicians, who stood near a couple dressed as water nymphs, talking to a collection of women dressed in bright colours with flowers decorating their towering powdered hair. Gentlemen with sinister masks and dashing smiles wooed women asking them to dance and feeding them delicacies from the tables; all shrouded in gentle candle light from candelabras and the elegant, gold chandeliers. Gossip swept around with those dancers and rippled across the heads of hordes of people, and it was all about the King's English concubine. Rumour had it that she was darkly

The Clock in the Corner still at Thirty Two Minutes Past Nine. The clock ticks slowly, Seconds, minutes, hours pass, Become days, weeks, months, And finally years. Numerous are gone, And nothing's changed: In that little locked box, The flesh behind ribs, That little closed locket. Things don't change, fast, Because, Knowledge is power, And power is the key, But time will break down the walls.

Restoration. The ache runs down, Like rivers, dangling ribbons, columns, Down the spine, halfway, Stopping at the heart, All the way from the mind. Turmoil, churns in the stomach, A battalion of butterflies, Doing untold damage. Tingles, sharp, pins and needles, Torment her where she lays, still, Coiled like a snake, waiting to attack, The revenge. All in good time, time to mend, Time to build up walls.

Progress. The words appear on the screen, As I think them, Appear on paper, As I muse over them. Characters, All individual, And essential. All of them real, But not real: Illusion, shapes, Squiggles on pages. All mine to do with what I please. This isn't a love poem, But it is.

Midnight. A river falls to endless pools of mystery, Swirling at my feet. Water casting shadows dancing on the ground, Like a butterfly in a spring breeze. Beneath the pulsing stars, Hearts drum out life. A pen scrawls across the page, Wet ink and dry paper. Scratching out words, meanings, A message cut into the world, to scar. To make persons wishes bleed, Into promises and vows. All to be broken in a split second, Or held for all of eternity.

Dancing in the Rain. Down it comes, In Fragile droplets, Breaking on impact. Hard. A tinkle against the window, The glass, An innocent smile, Reflected back, And an innocent pleasure. Puddles, splashing, wellies. Music in our heads, The beat of the rain. A perfect symphony, Perfect for our happy feet.

Refresh. I let them fall off me, Clothes, fears, even dream, Hit the floor, Soft crumpling, dull thuds, and crashes. Then I sink myself, Fall among them in a bedraggled heap, Of limbs, and flesh and blood and bones. There I ponder, Electric pulses in grey matter, Goosebumps crawl, Heart pounds and beats. Alone in the mess, It's not broken, It's just restyling, realigning, reorganising.

It. It takes a while to realise, Like the ticking of a clock. It's happening, And you don't even notice. It's determined, Like it's always going to win. It's all moving, And you do nothing to try to stop it. It's a slow process, Like it almost wants to be gentle. It's unstoppable, And you don't even look sad. It's over, And you just let it go.

Autumn. The tree that is slowly dies, To let light in where others hide, Through greens and reds and yellows and browns, The light streams through upon the ground, But as winter crawls across the mud, The light shines on bare ground not flowers. Oh the irony, As the light dances freely on crystal frost, Wasted.

Precious Things. She sits under the window looking up, Just like the child that she used to be. She watches the clouds scuffle with the blue, But the battle only one; a moment in a story, And the war is already over. The outcome as it was always going to be, The time it took was the only true question. The rest, though unanswered, are unnecessary. Ignorance is bliss and the girl is a convert, With demons of doubt, But the clouds will fade away. The sun shine, The snow and ice melt, Form streams and rivers, Pleasant to senses. What's a tumble in the winter, On snow that looked like sparkling rose cut diamonds, But was more li