let’s live in
streetlamp forests
with green
mosaic meadows
where shiny
rumbling creatures
patrol the undergrowth,
sweet grey mist
to paint the halogen
sunrise, savory
rain to flavour
colour coded
appetisers when
soft, sandy sky
wills it so,
dark and light
flashing bright
so you know
the history of
dark glossy
dire sunflowers
that swallow the
and glow in
the dark
to spellbind
the moon to
an inferior awe,
their finger tips
blink in black
and white
and green,
perfervid eyes
lie awake and
bright, gleaming
and cackling
in glory when
artificial, flying
stars pickpocket
idealist breath
and heartbeat,
you see, we
flow under
electric bridges
with satiny
train tracks,
snaking and not
far from breaking
their afore sketched
journey, pinned
down to the

T. E. Pyrus


once upon a
short while ago,
little diminished
star looked bright
in the mirror,
the while wistful
gold sunshine
soft mellow
day through
her hair and smiled
like the sunset;
eyes glaze
into light fading
gone by,
when little star
was a puerile
glow lighter,
frolic around
the light of her
mirthful sun
as it floated
over waves in
the sea, and
glanced into the
enchanted turquoise,
and she looked
to her lee,
found herself
lonely again,
the wandering
star, now
loved the
pale moon
and wandered,
not musing,
naïve, refusing
to mull over
daylight again;
then the dusk
cloaked her
jubilant smiles,
then she hid
in the midnight
awhile; she built
her own little
twining thorn
woods, and
it into dark
latitudes into
grit her teeth
and she dragged
her torn dawn
into sunrise,
carved a weary
and worn crescent
arc in the grey
stony wall that
she built on
her own, and
waited for moonrise
again, like frolic
and innocent
memory, crescent
ark on the moon
sailed the ocean
of night, and
swayed, reeling
too soon, and
cast torn blinking
star to the
welcoming earth;
little firefly
wandered the
night, right
into the arms
of gentle daylight,
who embraced
her close and
warmed her
soul, and
braided her
hair pal and bright;
then one night,
the star dreamt
of treason,
hidden thorn
woods that
hid fading reason,
and discovered
fears and
dark, shrouded
tears, discovered
sin in her heart;
she held onto
hard gentle land,
silver sand,
sorrow on
her palm,
and stifling
anguish so
dark; stumbled
she into redress
and reflected
pain, coursed
cut real,
blue through
her vein, her
eyes burning
and watched
into flame.

T. E. Pyrus


three minutes before
you walk out
through the door,
you hide
the bruises from
your fingernails
under your bed.
then you look
at the mirror,
walk through it
instead and
try to chisel
your stone soul
to flowers, balloons,
then you walk out,
dejected, say
you gave up
too soon, just
like cemented
footprints, too
vacant to cry,
the iced frozen
spider webs
wanted to fly.

two minutes before
you walk out
through the door
you find your
old heart doesn’t
work anymore,
creaking like lone
rusty swings
by the sea,
all quiet and
dark green like
vain sympathy,
swallow the
yellow paint, night
lights that fall
through the rickety
dark wooden frame
on the wall.

one minute before
you walk out
through the door,
you find you
at breakfast
wondering which
colour of steadfast
waterproof marker
you’ll sketch your
smile with today,
you know, pianos are
black and white,
most days are
grey, you know,
rain is dauntless,
that most smiles
are cold; there’s
no place for free
in this world.

T. E. Pyrus

daisy wheel

do you see the flying
paper planes
like breathing
gone all wrong,
and thunder is
a wild escaping
heartbeat of a
storm, and
paper plane, you
fly, look my hurricane
in the eye and watch
me calm and
dissecting your
melodious stupor
like a pirouetting
daisy under the
lonely spiral staircase
in the wind, the
daisy wheel that
prints your melancholy
gaze, your foudroyant
haze on my skin
in slow motion,
so for evermore my
tired soul remembers
your stormy heartbeat
and wisps of
your eyes in my
quiet memory
lie next to me
for evermore asleep.

T. E. Pyrus