A castle keep within her
decaying, frail cells,
a stronghold built of willpower;
here, her substance dwells.

With halls to thoughts, encrypted,
through vaulted passageways,
impressions saved and sent here
are linked within a maze.

Her cell of spartan comfort,
her screen to the unknown,
her cauldron of creation:
ideas are nurtured, grown.

Her boudoir of indulgence
with privacy secured,
where feelings are decoded
with empathy assured.

A niche within a recess,
a crevice in a crack,
a folder in a folder;
a password to get back.


A miniscule reminder wraps her finger in a mold,
nail polish glitters like her manacle of gold.
The layers of metallic paint reflect her living lies,
promises encircling her with strangle-holding ties.

She’s constantly repairing flakes that chip from her facade,
focusing on never facing fantasy that’s marred.
Not shallow, she has chosen, she is loyal and she’ll hide
all the craving that is carving hollow aching deep inside.

The chains of gold are choking in a yoke around her throat,
weighty with regretted vows that keep her mind remote,
while gilded frames enhance her portrait in a frozen life,
posing as a valuable and highly treasured wife.

She smiles with an imitation sparkle, masking tears,
focusing on acting out her role through empty years.
Not shallow, she has chosen, she is loyal and she’ll hide
all the craving that is carving hollow aching deep inside.

Rotary Clothesline

I’m anchoring a windmill
tilted at right angles,
I’m pegging sheets and clothing,
fighting weighty tangles
and futile bids for freedom –
moored, they flap and slap
together, held enslaved.
Haughty words can’t sap
my strength while I’m in charge;
egos wear a gag.
I’m hanging out my laundry,
raising my own flag.
Agendas won’t take over,
swallow, or enclose mine,
I’m in control, empowered,
standing at my clothesline.

Worlds Apart

No depth of soul is mirrored there.
Your eyes bare one short-sighted aim,
they glitter purpose and present
me as an enemy to blame.

I watch you open lips and throat
revealing lies you’ve swallowed whole
and half-truths part-digested. Hate
reprogrammes any self-control.

And then your clone in physical
expression, joins you, glaring through
my T.V. screen as focus shifts,
then cuts back to a news desk pew.

Party Talk

A mermaid barely notices she’s wet,
immersed in water, just as I don’t feel
the atmosphere is false – there’s no regret
when I resort to letting words conceal
more truths, in decoy script, than I reveal.
I’d rather make you happy with a lie
than sink your fancies with an honest sigh.