Will every way be barred to the expression that comes to mind short of perception?

In the beginning


Not only, but also

Blue moon of very uncle way
to you I show my feelings;
those free things still locked away
Although I see the sun at night
it casts no shadow and in the sun
by day, I hide away.

London's winter ends in a new decade,
for me a new face, for another a new facade.
Meet again mid—winter on reversed earth's season.
Drive to high cloud table to see the new city home.
Ivy covered church of aged bored stones shadowed
by the watchdog of the dream who covered every breath.
Coloured stone fountain and winding drive,
packed city view and white foamed river
kaleidoscopes around the new face and new facade.
The next revolving weeks are skipped like the
painting of the Sistine to the night of the thunder
and the morning of refreshing rain.
The story that's told by a mother to a child
which then becomes an adult was washed of
all its descriptives.


London far away from home
will you notice how I've grown
more travel weary and grey hair
but I have more time to stop and stare.

The missing recent lines reflect the motion of
winter warming into summer, the clear days
allow the wandering thoughts more room to soar
and dive about the flat land of’ society.

The form of time will desolve the passing;
even asking the way will be a crime
against this city aspired by conspiracy.
The air of force reduces the breath to quick gasps
and the shortage of wind becomes a way of life
in the windy city.
Stability of mind and soul is shown in the
vacant looks of the corrupting voices shielding
the puppet mass with strings of muscle from
the few gentle immigrants.

The truth will be found in the time when one day separated by days becomes days separated by never.

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And so it is, all tomorrows;
seeing yesterday again
but only as the picture frame
to the portrait of my sorrows,
I begin to remember when
I died in that car ride
and since that day they brought me back
I've clutched at love and living;
so afraid that all's a dream and
everything I give today
will be the last of giving.
And so it is, all tomorrows;
when I lost my dream
I found your teardrop in the sand;
calling, I reached out my hand,
for you were there unseen.
I saw the light no more.
It seems that they are only dreams,
and since that day you brought me back
I've clutched at love and living,
I'm so afraid to love without you
and everything I give today
will be my last of giving.


Present past to ask beyond the dream of time
which hour will get you back to home.
The rose gate of arbour den slowly turns
to green and ripple river cools the never burning rain.
Each drop is a promise made, each storm
is a promise broken, the cotton wool clouds
then soak away the tears.
Bright night of city people
behave before you're born:
of love and life be mystified
never tired or care worn.
See yourself as I see you
as young and gay and dream.
Today I say I love you
with a love never seen.
Calmer days and warmer nights
no fighting or struggle.
Clearer thoughts and closer friends,
no pin to burst my bubble.
Loving is an easy thing,
to live an art of grace.
To love and live no man will say;
It's thrown back in my face.

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The brief and testaments completed;
enter litigator and accused,
both believing each abused.
The prosecution begins the tale.
He's sure he's right and will not fail
The opening words are true and right.
He's bound to show his case is white.
The leader of the defence then starts,
finishing, the litigator smarts,
what can he say to answer back
knowing the other's case is black.
The justices are robed and seated,
all the evidence is completed.
The judgment is that right is right
and so the unicorn is white.

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