Hi there reader.

My name is Orla, I live on the island of Ireland amongst green trees and leprechauns, where we eat coddle every morning before hauling the pots of gold to new locations so that the wicked Vikings can not find them.

OK,. so that's poetic licience.

He . .

breathes still,

he told me so.

my dreams haunt me, he says,

yet I do not sleep.

I see her eyes but they

are blank, a vortex of destruction

screaming, relentless with me,

pulling me to her.

He lives still,

he told me so.

I know I am alive, if I cut, I will bleed

but there is no life in my veins.

I sense her smell

it is intoxicating though putrid,

a scent telling of a place I have not been

demanding that I follow.

He dies still,

he told me so.

This torment hurts more with each

second, but still I go on.

I hear her urging me,

I do not know what she wants,

her words are singsong syllables

long lost sounds

they must mean come to me.

He left last night,

he left no note.

Just an epitaph carved by his grief,

in the chair where he waited.

He did not say goodbye,

for there was no need.

he left, when

she left him,

leaving too many questions.

To Sleep -- Poem

The time of sands

The sands of time

The open road was never mine,

The last resort was never here

I sleep though I’m consumed with fear.

The dreams will come

The dreams insist,

They show me now the life I missed

To stand alone with others near,

I sleep though I’m consumed with fear.

So morning comes

So morning calls

The night-time from my memory falls,

The light abounds and seems so clear

I sleep though I'm consumed with fear.