coal mining

he leaves his
window open
so the rare
wind whistling by

through a dust-coloured
day; in a
dust-coloured cell
on a dust-coloured
treasure chest lie

his faded blue
attire, worn and
patched by gentler

greyed gracefully
to dusty black;
new wrinkles
on his face

weigh him down;
a faded
treasure chest
stares at a cement
coloured wall

over his head,
and the lonely
voiceless mist,
blinding; hear it

to rusty,
dark and sunless
sky, reflected
in his eyes,

when a bright and
impish countenance
eclipses tired

the tired rusty
treasure chest
five decades

to feel the stirring
light of grey,
to feel new
hope, awaits

the cold and
stinging storms
that pour, taste
salty youth again;

the dusty
yellow rain boots
melt, ecstatic
in the rain.

T. E. Pyrus

copper white

the fire white
sky sneers down
the horizon and
stares through
the window glass
at white and
yellowed shoes;
pretty little
feet scurry up
and up the
stairs, rising
high and spiraling
to nowhere in
footprints cover
footprints and
the voices in
their heads,
racing against
time unto forever
to the top;
drop a penny
in the fountain
dare you: come,
turn around,
then stop.

T. E. Pyrus


how’s it going
on your side
of perspective?
i hear that
new flowers
blink sleepily,
blinded by
melting sunshine
on snow studded
meadows and
the breeze;
while silver
white winters
now burst into
springs, you
will look to
your right,
blink an odd
seven times
as you swallow
your love for
the wintry
snowman who
waited and wept
in your backyard
as you flurried
right by him
each morning,
shuffled back
without a glance,
left him in
the cold with
bitter kindness,
you grow up to
soon to worry
about sentiment,
too late to
hurry time;
why don’t you
lay back on
your new faded
red cushioned
seat by the
cold, sneering
fire ’til
snowflakes bring
wake at
your window at
night, you walk
to the starlight
and the leaves
hide your
faded red blush
on your cheeks
from the cold,
the snowflakes,
they come, kiss
your nose and
eyelashes, your
heartbeat, so
you never grow

T. E. Pyrus


how many
empty promises
does it take
to break a heart;
shattered like
glass against
naive cold stone
and the splinters
stung lightly
like rainstorm;
life is skin
deep, you see,
gliding glass
marbles roll
onwards forever
while you gaze
enchanted by
ghosts of faded
stumble over
the present
as you skid
over ice
right into
your future;
i’d rather not
know when you’re
begging for
sunlight, all
tattered and
broken, down
on your knees
in desperate
tears; let them
talk to you then,
in their good-willed
pretend, white coats
and scribbles on
white sheets of paper,
and – how do you
spell your name, again?

T. E. Pyrus

burning stars in my pocket

if twenty storms
can’t bring you
down, a lightning
flash can kill;
mercy beyond
your wildest dreams,
and let me hold you
still, tie you
down with my
pale hopes that
bite and tear at me,
i’ll walk you,
precious pet, into
nostalgia, so wait;
it’s not an
endless sea, you wouldn’t
sink in if you
tried, but the
countdown into future
wins your battle
against time; i’ll
hold you here,
right in my pocket
lined with pretty
silk, your kindnesses
and your fears,
so let me
keep a tiny
piece of you
the way we did
before; i’ll sink my
nails into a fraction
of your gracious,
precious soul,
should you cry
to break free,
and escape the memory
of mercy killing;
you and i will
stay right here
in this hypnotic lane,
nor will we
lose to bitter stars,
nor torpid time again.

T. E. Pyrus

tracing paper

sunset through
fading, dark rain cloud
like a blushing
thunder, like
lightning with
a warm heart of peach,
look down upon
rust covered
unsightly creatures
of dust; they
paint their uneven
faces with uneven
lies, their
souls, made of
dry tracing paper,
strike a flame
through your sky,
with their bitterness
fly, our mirthless
and unending caper.

T. E. Pyrus