Bethany Waters

Love, such a twisted word
With a sick and corrupted mind
Justifying
The stains on the knees of her blue-white pants
...

Deep dark lines inhabit his face,
Slowly over time growing deeper.
After every insult, every blow.
Creasing deeper into his soul
...

There is a part of the soul
Concrete gardens will not fill
Towering trees of steel
Fail to satisfy
...

He is the boy on the haystack with the moon in his eye
The one standing by the railway saying goodbye
He’s climbing the barbed wire fence and caught at the top
The one whose mind is running and won’t ever stop
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Memory’s fickle
A dark, wretched tease.
Abandoning small moments
Ones to which you cleave.
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What is it of which you think
when only the voices in your head do speak?
Is it of paperclips flying in air
or of how much time bees have to spare?
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Even the moon has abandoned
The drifter’s soul.
Only faint glimmers move across the sky
Light too brief to be caught
...

Night after night,
Moon kissed
We return to this place
...