I wish there were no ifs Or buts, or lingering maybes - But only the delirium Of the re-memory of your face, Etched in my heart like The ravines a swollen river Carves in broken shale.
I wish there was no ochre coloured space; this drizzled, empty place, stained with this ache from the itch of a thousand broken pieces
Oh that there were between you and I - a half uttered invitation. I would cross seven mountains, seven valleys and seven swollen river beds too, to pour a libation at your feet, and revel in this delirium…
I wish there were no ifs, no buts, no reluctant maybes Yet all that is left here Like a bad song played relentlessly In my head, is a sad, dull knowing Of loss, and the sense Of a difficult ending