Just in between lectures on a london trip with school, casually writing poems about the people i saw.
Behind your eyes
What do you see, mon ami?
From misted, glistening eyes,
as you sit and contemplate the skies?
I will never know as you know or knew.
Or see exactly as you do.
Thoughts you covet,
ones you treasure or
let slip aimlessly by
like clouds in your own personal sky.
I will never know,
and with you alone they will preside.
Ex 30 Nov 12
Whispers of whisperings
Nothing is there.
Nobody stands, sits, walks or runs,
in that space,
on that stair.
It is simple air.
Which has a million ghosts
for each of the corners,
the crevases,
the cubbyholes,
and the cupboards,
their lies a million misted dreamings,
thoughts, happenings, stories of people.
Dreams no longer thought,
hands no longer dealt
nor feelings no longer felt.
Just whispers of whisperings.
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