Do you still see the rain,

As god’s weeping grace,

Or even his crude relieving?

Or is it just that: rain,

No romance protruding,

The clouds precipitate.

Then how do you see me?

Am I just my mother’s son,

The friend from before,

A stranger protruding?

I’m a weeping face,

The same as before,

Grace withholding,

If you can just say you see me,

I’d be relieved to be rain.

What’s done is done, and stands no more,

Tis this which brands mine lore forlorn,

Lost t’time are days

The only arc is the one you watch

It feels wrong, when things can be alright and stay that way. Nothing ever maintains a state in a universe of constant change, yet the work you put in can prolong the state of rightness that often feels unearned. Imposter syndrome. I have a good relationship with my mum, never felt truly attainable, what with the lack of therapy and certain things unspoken. The work is worth it, the unadventurous is grounded and grounding and it’s so important. Talk to me. Speak honestly, pour your heart after considering the permanence of a bond - your heart is beating and you are human. The important shit is worth the risk and risk shrinks when you’ve put in the cognitive work. The thoughts of deep care and whispers of the heart. Life is long as hell and no one talks about it. Let it be the gift kung fu panda says it is. Training arc and sword sharpening, the armour donning montage must all happen before the catharsis and it’s all necessary. You need to want, you love to love, and it is ALWAYS going to have to start with you.

I named her

‘The Odyssey II’ after my father’s old fishing vessel: The Odyssey, obviously. Mine is nothing like his in terms of the breed of boat, or even in the details of her design. It was The Odyssey mark two. The second. Though not through blood, she would act as the spiritual successor to my father’s last voyage. An impressionist rendition of his good hopes. His ship might have been bigger, its hard to remember through a blurred current of childhood perspectives and brief, distance glances in my teenage years. Years throughout which I would proclaim a proud disdain of my father’s creaking voyager. That obscene, unreasoned estimation would cling to my legs and seem to pull me down into the dirt, the day I stood over my father’s grave. His dreams, namely - establishing a water crossing with his boat on the river near our house - meant he was on a streamlined course to earning his own altruism. The river had a bridge for the railway, the next bridge would be grating few miles downstream into the next town. The railway was efficient but expensive when one was only trying to jump to our riverside sister town. That meant surgery on The Odyssey was required to fit in a handful more bodies in her arms.

Try to relax

There’s a storm outside,

Covering myriad dreamscapes,

Every single joy,

And the coins in your tattered wallet.

So in this room the air is quiet,

And the crying winds are faded,

By the hum of your electric fan,

Surplus air for breathing.

Its unfamiliar here,

Home lies at the bottom of the ocean,

Where you’ve never seen it before,

And will never see again.

Refuge connotes safety without home,

In here, you remember dreaming,

Every other heart beat,

And the slowest joys of you.

Where lies the heat of the melted?

A warmth within turnèd hellish.

Its cool when you smoke,

Not when you cough.

I had imagined writing you across the world,

Adventure galore, the dreamland yearning,

Its hard to exist in two highs

Don’t only tell your secrets to your poems

How much heart do I have to pour?

A cup for you, I’m happy to,

If that wasn’t enough,

I gladly fill the next,

With tears.

It’s a scary thing, to be written. To be flattened in a 2D space. It’s a scary notion, that we could be that simple to understand.

Who worse to be fooled by than yourself?

I was going to give you a speech about your insignificance and how your problems are devised of your own shortcomings and ideas. I can see you wouldn’t listen.

You’re not gonna see the end of the world.

But breathe it all in the same.

Time won’t stop.

Make sure

You’re

Here.

Air Tight

Breath can only travel so far,

Crevice sealed, no door ajar,

The exhale feels still. Still,

Dust collects on the windowsill,

When choices linger so long,

Every decision becomes wrong,

Suspension is a beautiful trap,

Now dust collects on my lap,

Particles so small, so far, so few,

Long for change; the mourning due,

Glazed light, foggy sun, open mouth,

Directionless, North’s west, East’s South-

It’ll happen, I think, just move. Just move.

sublime

We are insignificant. Life has never stopped for anyone. it didn’t stop when the earth shook, it didn’t stop when tsunamis crashed, it didn’t stop when my dad died. The universe is profound and large and time is infinite. There is a devastating fear to be found in this. But there is also a peace. There is also a great focus to be dug up in the moments where you realise that your actions have an infinitesimally microscopic weight to them. So focus on your loves, speak with your soul -- take it all in.