Patrick Rylands

Nothing might contain the night of life,
The fire of her wild soulscape
And the moors.
Wherein time is a thing to be lost or spent.
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“I’m writing to say.”
“I decided to write.”

I found beginning the difficult thing. (Remember not to commentate.)
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For all those who confuse reality with fantasy – a warning
The following television disaster was not contrived in Hollywood
And although we will be showing you ‘dramatic’ footage, do not be taken in.
The tear-stained faces of beautiful children were not directed, the screams are real
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My unvoiced love is heaven-high
I lie atop and wonder why
I never ran in the snow to tell you the news
(I signed away the insignificant dues)
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As we walked in the fire
As we talked of desires
You lifted me to drink from the cup of life
I pulled you after me, a tandem of love
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Sent back my health - said I didn’t need it
Returned my heart, my soul, my self
“You know, I think I’m better on my own”
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I gave her the feed and she smiled politely
That slick-lipped, lip-sticked show of perfectly white teeth.
I recoiled, immune, so used to this artifice.
Sipped my unwanted drink and glanced at the time
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Here I am as usual, seeking out poems about madness
An alternative to gardening my way to an imaginary escape.
Once I walked on the lawns, peering into the empty faces.
In lost afternoons I mapped the route from sluice to orange juice.
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