Playing Final Fantasy on a Friday Evening

Phoenix down for my life, search
Ether for my poems, steal
A princess but with summons
And random battles of dark
anxiety which can be
Big Bad dark on such a day
Press a, press a, contemplate;

The black mage on the sofa speaks
little, but softly speaks
of great problems, loneliness
of creation, how meeting
your creator is not wise
how harshly the mist machines
just disappoint and grow dark

But there is such light here, in
Aeris, in life’s crisp power
which always courses, pulses
deep in the planet, guiding
all, and that is not to call
attention to its steward:
Nobuo Uematsu

The bombing mission plays on
each morning bears new twists, raids
elaborate stories and
weirdly wide range of monsters
as here, so it is in there;
little explanation, but
just wait, worth levels upwards.

The Sun

The sun my angel rise on an autumn morning
This is the allegory. Seemingly unchanged
A sea of dark grey shades, an orange tint
This first morning mourning, the light of a firefly
Suspended on that sad height the sun, glows
The word glows with a sad inability to match
Who has set the atmosphere on fire?
I fear the dark fire of the winter which,
I fear all seasonal signs and portents
Be it leaves on the floor, a frozen sheet

The Value of Darkness

If you talk to me of comfort, my friend
And darkness, well I’ve this –

If the nocturnal endlessness of the darksky
Were placed against her, I
Would mark it as a grain of dust
Hanging in her beam of sunlight
On a summerday’s comfort,
Gleaming ironmetal to its rust.

But perhaps you’d rather I turn your head in surprise –

She is as darkness to me, how it flies
Curving out at equal speed to light
Enveloping all most shadowly in night
As we lie together sweating sparks of touch –
She is my eclipse, my thunderstorm
My oceandeep gloom, my envelope
She is the stranger standing in the room
Who disappears on waking.
She is my light and dark, she is my gloaming.

She is not sound, but silence, after chatter
Shook violentwise the eardrum and composed
A mindset to accept the wind and void.

She is not caress, but the lack of touch
On a breathless day under unfeeling sun
When all the cares of the world burn into my skin
In all noise and fury.

You grade the universe wrong when you throw this out.
We measure all things, and give them measure
And photon impacts per second offer death to the heart.
Measuring value in metres cubed…

Listen:
It might be right to prefer the end of the world, and doom
To the end of the shining connection, holding in storm
The weatherfronts of myself and her.

She is my welcome gloom.

The Lack

I sit here gazing into our garden
And my thoughts are thrown to the future
Where you are gone and lacking from the world
By the sound of voices and strings from the radio

I imagine your funeral, and the darkness of the church
The tears of the congregation of your life
And me sat here in this house again, after
gazing into the future without you.

And I catch a taste, of what must be
The lot of the losers, having lost their shining thread
drawn into old places, without the old guard
The haunting nostalgia, unrelenting

Unable to move, unable to remove
From life, the anchors of the past
And I understand for a second, hidden til now
What loneliness is.

And for a second it destroys me.
The lack is not someone missing
It is someone all too there, overdetermined.

And your loss too, already overthought
Will haunt me until it, too, passes
And we see my real reaction.

I do not await this moment with a smile.