Tick-

winds over this shallow sea
where violet evenings rise and fall
like a hypnotized tide
whisper like the last monsoon;
the taste of rain, the smell of salt,
and the soft, muted ticking
of the Clock
beneath peaceful waters.

winds over this shallow sea
where smokey sunsets rise and fall
like a hypnotized tide
whisper like lovers’ farewells;
the taste of rose, the smell of ink,
and the soft, harmless ticking
of the Clock
muffled in peaceful waters.

winds over this shallow sea
where dusty gold mornings rise and fall
like a hypnotized tide
whisper like haunted laughter;
the taste of ash, the smell of sun,
and the soft, stifled ticking
of the Clock
imprisoned in peaceful waters.

winds over this shallow sea
where ebony midnights rise and fall
like a hypnotized tide
whisper like quiet amnesia;
the taste of loss, the smell of sleep,
and the ever-present ticking
of the Clock
awake under peaceful waters.

Wait.

T. E. Pyrus

until

maybe i’ll watch a sunset
float leisurely up to the polished rim
of a wineglass full of cool water.

maybe i’ll taste
shy rainbows on sunlit waterfalls
on peaceful afternoons.

maybe i’ll watch mid-mornings
fade into matted shadow
on broken sunglasses by the sea.

maybe i’ll gaze at a hundred moons
that wait soundlessly
in dewdrops every dawn.

maybe i’ll stay there,
watching forevers flow
like clear raindrops
through the spaces between my fingers.

maybe i’ll wait,
until time feels real again.

T. E. Pyrus

nostalgia

Burn these city lights 
                  into my memory:

the way they reflect in midnight waters
                 like a diamond necklace in the sun;

     the way traffic lights sometimes fall asleep 
amidst an unscripted musical -

          cars decked in red brake lights,
             joyful yellow taxicabs,
                  awkward blaring trucks
           and tourist buses in tacky pastel hues
                like cheap synthetic frocks;

          monstrous machines breaking down 
            battered sidewalks,
              strangers’ silences mirrored 
          in bright green glass bottles 
       that wait quietly in the rubble;

the way young trees, 
  leaves lined silver with fallen smoke,
    still dance with the winds
       of accidental summer thunderstorms.

    remind me of prideful skyscrapers,
air-conditioned waiting rooms,
  imitation leather, prim paper-cups
    and coffee machines - precious raindrops
                    on a high sunburnt window glass.

remind me, then, 
      of forecasted weather,
 scorching ultraviolet, partly-cloudy skies;

imagine a smudged-lipstick sunset -
    warm dust of a bare cemented terrace 
        beneath your bare feet,
            sundried wind in your hair-
   then paint me a memory,
like an ever-changing faerytale…
          and another…
                    and another...
until their world dissolves 
            into an airplane-studded sky.


When these whitewashed walls crumble - 
         when, perhaps someday, the earth 
              wakes into a new, breathing era,
    a foreign, vibrant, intoxicating warmth
           of a world that echoes with wonder;

when I fall in love with clear blue sunlight
     and mellow moons that sketch our silhouettes 
on unbound lands,
     remind me, one last time, 
          of my home.

T. E. Pyrus

prelude

The air is full
of greyed birds
and quiet leaves.

Soft chimney-smoke
over red roofs
stands dark and still.

Our crumbling earth
makes home for pools
of rippling sky.

These restless winds
hide, trembling, tense,
within tall trees.

Lightning startles
nightstained clouds;
white winds sing.

Clear rain rings
in shivered hymns
of a perfect storm.

T. E. Pyrus

the Sculptor

then she twirled around
beneath her dizzy sunset
and forgotten moon

like torn autumn leaves
that circled golden stormwinds
spiralled home to earth;

eyes, burning like snow,
summer raindrops on her lips
quivered with new mirth,

and i carved her breathless silhouette
with paper hands into the burning sky
ere they crumbled into breathing ash;

wishing stars burn quietly tonight.

T. E. Pyrus

When…

darkness dissolves into sunsets,
stars fall through midnight like rain,
flickering streetlamps sleep soundly,
seconds count minutes in vain,

the wind forest’s net catches moonlight,
the sunrise soaks into the land,
oceans are mountains of dewdrops,
mountains are soft breaking sand,

clear winds break clouds into laughter,
the blushing gold autumn is shy,
all of these moons burn like snowstorms,
the wanderer, quiet, tiptoes by.

T. E. Pyrus

Prison-souls

They put up grills outside the corridor
that idles before our classrooms.
The quadrangle trapped within
breathes beneath the open skies,
burning in the mid-morning sun,
and hiding in our imaginary mysteries at night.
The new paint on the grills is soft
and green like bluish boredom,
we sunk in our tense fingernails
into patterns of ill humour,
’til uncivil slurs of loud empty threats
shooed us back into shadowy classrooms.
Every time we stepped outside,
the glossy grills drew our leftover pride,
silenced our laughter, till all we could do
to look away from the hypnotic grills
was to gaze vacantly at the red lines,
and the carelessly scribbled words in red
that demanded clearer handwriting,
and red fractions over hundred
that sunk and never rose again.
Sometimes, between the ear-splitting lunch bells,
we’d push our hands out through the gaps in the grills
that ventilated the claustrophobic corridor,
with close-clipped nails, perhaps some spilt ink,
or an apathetic cut from a pencil sharpener,
as the rain poured, stormy and seething
and cold upon our skin, as we counted
in threes, first drops for another word,
bit back to save our mouths
that bleed from all the undeserved apologies
that they were made to speak,
second drops for notes passed under the desk
and crushed words of passion
that choked our wavering voice,
every third for dreams they mocked with skill,
and said we must outgrow, so we grew,
expanding and stretching, deflating and straining,
stifling and pulling, and pulling, and pulling,
until something broke,
and all the sunshine drowned
in these broken prison-souls.

T. E. Pyrus