the heart laid bare

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push
a strange distance
SWIMMING ALWAYS DOWNWARD
A ONCE-FAMILIAR LANDSCAPE
No Apology
the thunder
tinder
VERBAL PORTRAIT OF A CAT OWNER
critical shortage
the sky we thought we knew
CIRCA SOLEM
almanac
baby
dearest orlando
FIVE MONTHS
A LETTER TO THE UNDESERVING
cactus heart
would we
the fall of giants
paradise lost
Dad
after you've gone
time
a smile from the eyes
trepidation
why so cold
fix this
swallow me
untitled 8
insular
cry alone
robin
quicksand
laces
D.I.S.C.
stripped
waving goodbye
your open eyes
enemy within
mortal
untitled 4
sleepless
OUTSIDER
untitled 9
come dream with me
in the face of adversity
one word
the dark of the night
untouchable
one and one makes two
you burn me
see me
this shaken core
my lover
helen
my room
his words
foolish
rita
chalk drawings
the longest night
stupid skeleton
CLOTHES MAKETH
FIRST LASTS
STELLAR
TODAY
I WATCHED A MAN DIE TODAY
THREE WEEKS
this slippery slope
untitled 5
Arrows
First Kiss
The Talk Of Love
Nicotine
Blackout

paradise lost

We fooled ourselves.
For a little while we fooled our hearts into thinking
That it was fair;
That justice was a thing;
That bad was punished and good rewarded;
That the song wouldn't end.
We were shocked into sadness
When the last note played.
And the instrument that held the tune
Was broken sharply over a knee
Before the musician walked off without looking back.

Other players stood and watched with their mouths agape
While the audience frantically tried to glue the smashed and dented fragments together with clumsy hands,
Full in the knowledge that no melody they could ever play would fit the same...
Inside their instruments
Inside our ears
Ever again.
We lost the taste for it.

And the final notes
Have caused a rift between our ears and our hearts,
So even to listen to prior renditions of perfect pieces
Is painful...
Because they are no longer perfect.
The present has tainted the past.

Written in memoriam of Terry Pratchett and the Discworld.

© mjc 08 September 2015

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Biography

Daughter, sister, aunt, godmother, friend, public servant; self-confessed hermit, confirmed cat person, sporadic baker, irreformable yarncrafter, voracious reader; occasional wit, voluble shower vocalist, frequent sacrifice on the altar of brain-to-mouth filter fails, random shit-slinger, unrepentant purveyor of puns and dad jokes, writer and poet.

I have always lived by the theory that no matter what you do for a living - if you are compelled to write, if you wake up in the night to scrawl the contents of your dreams on a notebook beside the bed, if no event in your life seems complete without you recording it, if you are drawn to comment upon the world - then you are a writer.

These are my words.