Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Oh hang on - that’s been done but hey What about a song? I could write one of those Something sloppy, something clichéd, Something chockablock full of purple prose Something to put the light back in your eyes Something guaranteed to make you despise Me less than you do, have done, will do It used to be fun but the elusive spark Primeval, urgent rolls in the park Sunday mornings on a sea of passion Bed, Classic FM, coffee, jam and croissant Are things of past, of yore, of history, Your dressing up games… “Is that a light sabre in your pocket, Darth, Or are you just pleased to see me?” Our love was like a red, red rose One too many pricks And fragile in the day’s last glow Bright blooms crushed in anger, in worthless, momentary sin And in the aftermath Who can tell where petal ends and blood begins Word upon word like fuel on the fire Skirting truths, beating back hard Nagging hunger pangs of true desire. No man’s an island they, with wisest eyes, proclaim But who’d dare be lost on you with Nothing but vacuum where... (read more)