Tag Archives: death


Bluebell in my hand,
Sheltered petals kissed with dew,
Cold gnawing at my fingers,
But I will not let her through.

Bluebell safe and warm,
Perfume rising on the wind,
Winter wants to take you from me,
But I will not let him win.

Bluebell dipped in sky,
Violet harbour in this grey,
I know that you are dying,
But you need not be afraid.

Bluebell mine, bluebell mine,
Ever beautiful and frail,
Long after you have left me,
My heart will sing your tale.

Jam Jars

Imagine if Death were a child,
A curious collector of things,
Of the fireflies flickering deep in our souls,
Kept in jam jars with polka dot trims.

Indexed, and ordered, and filed,
An exquisite, unparalleled trove,
An existential menagerie, if you will,
Indiscriminate, eclectic, and bold.

And the stories that she would amass,
Vast tomes atop dust laden shelves,
The penned trinkets and temporal titbits of man,
Bedtime tales of creation itself.

There would be quiet, unassuming ones, ones driven by love,
There would be ones that stood out from the rest,
There would be tragic ones, ones that would go forever unsung,
But the simple, honest ones would be the best.

Every jar, every soul, every book, every tale,
An epitaph for the universe known,
Her museum a beacon for those passing over,
Calling them, guiding them home.

Imagine if Death were a child,
She’d be lonely, she’d be lost and afraid,
But as she toed through the interminable dark after life,
Her jam jars would light up her way.

Sticky, Stuck

My mind is sticky, stuck,

That’s the tricksy part of luck;

To have these thoughts, these needs,

and to never set them free…

They do not know me yet

– closet hyperbolic wreck –

(See, they still think I’m sane

and I still play their games),

But my mind is sticky, stuck,

My lips are melted shut

while my heart growls, stomach screams,

and an earthquake rips my seams.

Black Dog’s pulling on his lead;

A hungry, rabid fiend,

Must let the right ones in

to this naked sideshow of my sin,

But my mind is sticky, stuck,

Disconnected, out of touch,

And they will see the cracks set in,

Watch through translucent skin,

See my insides turn to ash,

Watch me stutter, jerk, and thrash,

But they’ll never do enough

to get my sticky mind unstuck.



Well Played

I am through,
And it’s all on you.
I know that I will lose,
And when I do,
I know that I will choose
to welcome death,
I cannot catch my breath,
My eyes are sunken,
My mind is drunken,
My face is ripped off and I’m hunkered,
The body blows are raining
and I’m failing,
Because I cannot duck and weave,
How can I when I cannot even breathe?
There’s no reprieve.
I am drowning
in the sky,
I cannot hide,
The night
washes over like a tide,
Fills my lungs with poisoned dye
overflowing through my eyes
like acid tears,
And I am melting,
Dissociative and helpless.

I am through
and it’s all on you,
You could stop this if you choose,
But you refuse
to let it go,
Your heart is stone,
Your hooded deeds are hammers striking bone,
Your words alone are iron
and I am pummeled from a lion
to a haggard Jouvet cat,
Slipping from the only consciousness I had,
My head is lolling,
The water’s calling,
I am falling,
I am drowned,
The roar of life
has dragged me down
and it has left me
without sound,
Silent, bloated, blue.

I am through,
and it’s all on you.

Well played.

Til Death

Don’t let my fingers
slip from the palm of your hand,
You’re all I have left.



Inspired by the story of Italvino and Diva, a Brazilian couple who died within 40 minutes of each other, after 65 years of marriage, in the same hospital room, their beds pushed together so they could hold hands (read more here).

Also dedicated to a couple within my own family who are currently unwell and in hospital. My thoughts, love and prayers are flying their way x

Porcelain Dolls

Dedicated to my beautiful cousin Erica; gone but never forgotten. Thank you for the smiles. Sweet dreams, Angel.

Porcelain dolls,
Side by side,
We are grey,
We are cracked,
We are broken,
Limbs shattered
yet entwined,
Bodies huddled,
Swaying to a rhythm of
Please hold my hand
for it is crumbling,
Someone hug me
for I am breaking,
Hold me up
before I fall,
My disjointed
knees are weak
and tired,
I need shoulders
for my heavy head,
We are joined by
one prevailing sadness,
Held in the stasis
of our grief,
(But still we
eke out a smile
at a joyful memory,
We slip a laugh
between the tears…)
One doll is gone,
One doll ascended,
The remaining dolls
are now fragmented,
picking up the
dusty remnants,
Tiny bits of porcelain,
But we have each other,
We are together,
And many pieces
can be

Worked to Death, Death to Work!

I’ve had enough
of all the office politics,
Of sickly pricks
and inappropriate wit,
How many ways could I get out of this pit?
Take a hole puncher to my finger tips?
Or perhaps I could just staple my lips,
Or jam pencils into each eye socket,
Use scissors as a hara-kiri sword,
Or hang myself with the telephone cord,
Inhale the aerosols the cleaner has stored,
Or wait for the impending death from being bored,
Being stabbed in the back is
an occupational hazard,
But alas words have proved to be inefficient daggers,
The computers are so old
– pray they explode any minute,
Or lick the keys of the keyboard
– there’s bound to be smallpox within it,
Sniffing glue has been done to death (ha!)
But how about a different orifice?
Perhaps pushpins for some sort of
deathly acupuncture?
I’d settle for anything at this juncture!
So many ways to get out of this pit
But I guess the easiest
would be to man-up and


The sky bleeds pink,
Fat smears of solar ink,
Smudged like mascara on the cheek
of the angel who weeps
for the inevitability that creeps
in across the sky;
The day must die.
And how can the finality of death,
The taking of a final breath,
Yield a beauty that could steal it?
That could make a mind reel in it?
Feel in it
an awe that can change a life?
Make a future bright?
And all within the dying of a light?
Yes, the day must die…
But oh,
the endless possibilities
of the night!


I looked at him,
Into the emerald of his eye,
And he did not see me,
My fingers passed right through
the rosy blush upon his cheek
and he did not feel me,
I said that thing he always loved
and the words; they just evaporated
and he did not hear me,
And the saccharine scent of my perfume
that reminded him of butterflies
just fell into the void
and he did not smell me,
And he didn’t press upon
the worry of my brow
with the softness of his lips;
He did not taste me,

And then I knew
that I was asleep,

And then I cried
no tears.