Waking Up


The ghosts are cooing
in the broken arms
of their mothers.
They pour their afterlife
into bottles of sleep.

Leaves carefully labelled
as armour. Brown trousers
and a sky for a t-shirt.
Hair sculpted into a time machine,
teeth stuck to the wall.

A monster packed into a bag,
dinosaur shoes. The metal doors
of an education. Strapped in,
not sure where the routine has gone.

Kisses blown across the desert,
come home, come home, come home.
The echo of a hospital,
mornings stitched back together.


One thought on “Waking Up

  1. Beautiful poems, I find them after reopening the trail to find you and continuing to wonder where you may be in the performance arena. Surprised and saddened to see this journey you’ve been on, are on still, sending all good wishes as always, hoping to see you sometime, your work always inspires, always comes from a place of integrity that I can trust, Love to you, L-M


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