Bubbles

Dreams for dinner, pizza for bed,
Thoughts like lead and greasy edged,
All ideals dredged,
As the bubbles splatter, hopes scatter
Across the sticky floor and into cracks,
The backs of your hands red raw,
You stand upon the spindle,
Cry then fly,
Look back as we dwindle,
You catch my eye. You trip,
Those night eyes - blinded, slip
Closed again,
Always closed these days,
Visionless words from an expressionless face,
It was for you that I fell,
Forever and always falling,
You were calling me back
From a beautiful dream.

 This is a bit of an oddment - a rare case of collaboration. I'm not sure whether this is a case for or against team efforts in poetry. On the plus side it shows that poems really do grow from the strangest of places. Thanks again to Mr Hadfield.

Oops...

That's a long gap without posting. My apologies to any of my readers who've still stuck around.
So hello again. I shall try to avoid being such a rubbish blogger. Let's get going again with a shiny new poem. Not very seasonal but I promise it is recent.

Dryad

I always thought that autumn days were kind.
A golden cadence lights the evening sky.
Amid this blaze, I thought I would not mind,
The wind that howls through my,
Thin skin and frozen bones
And like a long-lost spirit, softly moans.

The bronzed corpses of leaves beneath my boots;
A carpet that crackles with curled up forms,
That lie among the thick and tangled roots.
Debris of seasons’ storms.
Love letters of the trees,
Carried trailing and listless on the breeze.