Her Belt

I wonder if she thought of me
when she cinched her belt,
and if she had to punch
extra holes in the leather
before she did it,
and if it was real leather
or as fake as we were.
I wonder these things,
and quickly follow up
my wondering with more,
like why I am this way,
and if I was the one
who handed her that belt
when I walked into her life
and took it from her.
Living feels hard
when death comes calling,
whispering names
that sound like yours,
but dying seems easy
when life comes calling,
shouting names
that should have been hers.
And maybe that is why
I wonder about that fucking belt
more than anything else.
That belt would have served me better,
holding up the weight of this life
she would have lived
fuller than I have.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

In Collapse

Still, I wonder, here in collapse,
if I should pick the jagged stones
of humility out of my knees,
or let them settle in, pushing
rough edges into my vulnerability.
And if I did, would you see me as divine?

© Nicole Lyons 2017

All Of The Cynics Are Left Instead

All of the stars in me are falling
all of the waves have breached the banks.
All of the hope in me is spiralling,
all of the hate has been given thanks.
All of the love in me is aching,
all of the pain has come to dance,
all of the light in me is flickering,
all of the darkness has another chance.
All of the life in me is weeping,
all of the death has come to call.
All of the ships I sailed are sinking,
all of the heavens have begun to fall.
All of the faith in me is breaking,
all of the will has met its end,
all of the giving has turned to taking,
all of the evil has become my friend.
All of the words have turned to dust,
all of the poetry has lost its soul,
all of the music has stopped playing,
all of the burdens have taken their toll.
All of the magic has lost its lustre,
all of the believers have gone to bed,
all of the artists have given up,
all of the cynics are left instead.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Nothing To Say

There is nothing to be said about the way you hover over me,
nothing about the way you grind your hips and your filth
against me from somewhere inside places, I have never been.
There is nothing to be said about the way you breathe,
hot and filled with rage, against the back of my neck
when I write your ugly truths into existence
and when I speak my words above yours.
There is something to be said about the way
a woman’s voice carries, though, and it crosses oceans,
climbs mountains, and charges through wastelands,
gaining speed and strength with every ear it tickles.
But there is nothing to be said of the shoulders
too weak to hold the weight of those voices,
the ears too ignorant to listen,
and the mouths too vile to spit anything other than hate.
No, there is nothing much to say about any of that,
but you can be damn sure I am going to say it.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Autumn Winds and Grey Skies

When autumn winds
have stolen
summer’s last kiss
I will find you
again in my dreams;
over and over past
thousands of Thursdays,
until I can meet you
under grey skies
and flaming trees.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Fancy Meeting You Here

Sometimes the memories become too much,
and I wonder if you have locked me away
as I have you.
And if every now and again I begin kicking
through the walls of your mind,
overwhelming you,
and if I do I wonder if you quietly surrender,
or if you furiously gasp for air
when the regret takes you under, too.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Syllable by Syllable

And sometimes these words,
they save me, but sometimes,
most times, they kill me,
syllable by fucking syllable,
they rip me to shreds.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Waiting For Winter

I remember looking up
when the lock shattered,
watching the tree dropping its leaves,
and I felt disappointment,
and as naked as its branches.
That tree had kept our secrets,
and I think I may have thought that
somehow we would have been hidden now,
from prying eyes and a looming winter.
But the winds had come, and he had gone,
and I found myself in the open, lonely and alone,
breaking bits of memories into my hands
and walking the abandoned road,
until I sat in the spot where
we paid our toll and had been granted passage,
and I waited for winter to come again.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Another Season

The shadows are making
their way to my door again,
and my stoop has been painted
in grey, but I know that soon
the grey will give way
to the blackness and I will
spend another season crushing
bricks and sprinkling salt
in every corner of my
fragile mind.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Technicolor Love

Will you love me
in reds and greens?
Push deep purple
through the curtains
and into the dark,
where colours fade
and my dreams cease to be.

© Nicole Lyons