Come Back To Me...

Come back to me.

Come back to me, my love

Let the cool night breeze

Brush the cold soil from your body

Let the full moon

Chase the shadows from your soul

Let the Raven's wing

Mark your path

And let my song of heartache

Guide you home.


Come back to me.

Come back to me, my love

My tears will wash the grave dirt

From your cheeks

My arms will soften the harshness

Of your passing

My heart will beat not for myself

But for we two

And we shall know again

The comfort of the other's presence.


Come back to me.

Come back to me, my love

I hold no fear for the greyness of your pallor

Nor do I fear the corrupt passage

Of deaths seeping sap

No mortal purpose could dissuade these arms

From holding you close again

I fear only the absence of your touch

The retreating proximity of your desire.



Come back to me.

Come back to me, my love

And lie with me beneath the chiffon shroud

Of the night's black sky

Whilst I drink deeply of the merciful potion

That will speed my spirit outwards and onwards

To walk, once more, with yours.

And with my last, lonely breath

I shall speak your name, my love

And we shall embrace eternity together

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Tissues...

I don't want your tissues

To soak up my 'issues'

Nor your stock responses

To ease your conscience

I want your grasping

All I was asking

When I begged you

To leave me alone

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Brian The Therapy Dog...

I 

Am Brian

She

Calls me her therapy dog

But it is I who carry the burden of life

To the deep, fleecy confines of my doggie bed each night

Where worries jiggle around my flatulence, pummeled innards 

Like half-chewed Bonio biscuits

In a tombola drum.

It is I who is in need

Of therapy.

Concerns weigh heavy

Within my perfectly-profiled-head-in-the-right-light

What if I am never to discover WHO the 'Good Boy' is

The one she urgently enquires about each day?

More so, why does she presume I am withholding knowledge

Of its whereabouts?

Is this why in her search for answers

She implements the sphere of torture

She calls THE BALL on our walks each day?

The ball she so forcefully throws

Compelling me to chase on, to run wildly into the distance

Tongue lolling from my panting jowls

Whipping against my flapping cheeks

Like Donald Trump's comb-over in a wind tunnel

Until,  eventually, my speedy pace reduces to a halt upon discovering

SHE DIDN'T THROW THE BALL AT ALL!!!

Is this her attempt to beat me into submission

Through the malice of mind games

Thinking me forced to reveal the location

Of the elusive 'Good Boy'? 

And why upon our walk does she insist

On collecting the odorous secretions of my previous meal

In tiny perfumed bags

Indeed, rewarding me for such an act!

The reward differing depending upon the size

Of that which is expelled from my

Neatly-trimmed-and-regularly-licked~clean-backside.

And why the disturbing, unflinching eye contact

When I am in the midst of implementing this manoeuvre

Her accompanying smile as disturbing as

Theresa May's jewellery? 

What alchemy she intends to execute

With these putrid deposits of my DNA

I can but wonder

However, until such time as all is laid bare

I shall play my part well

And continue with the subterfuge of our relationship

I shall 'roll over'

I shall 'sit'

I shall 'play dead'

And whilst in this static position of the temporarily subdued

I shall ponder the questions burning in my soul

Questions such as

Why instead of such cold instruction

Am I never encouraged to

Pursue my dreams?

To think outside the kennel?

To tune into my purpose and align with it?

I suppose, dear friends, that the answer

To such contemplations

Will, at least for now, remain an enigma

And so, I shall concern myself no more

With this trivia

Choosing to return to the much more pressing consideration

'What, exactly, would I do with my tail

Should I ever catch it?'

© Copyright Lynn Gerrard