Lucy Gray Poems

She is golden and gracious
with soft fingers.

Feathered whispers of her thoughts
...

Summer is gone
and the moon is left hanging,
solitary in an untidy sky
...

It hurts
that you don't notice
me in my bluest blue dress.
...

Who am I?
Who do you want me to be?
I'll paint my face, cover
every inch with layers of
...

I spend the morning thinking.
Shall I go to church tomorrow?
Or shall I be cast into a dark, cold park
pursing my shivering lips around cigarette
...

future is a vast expanse of confusing
unknown romanticised nonsense

past is like the dead
...

Winter reminds me of home
One which crumbles as I write
It is a home I forget and
remember with glimpses
...