Collapses Poems | Examples

Bridge Circuitry Frayed Dismayed

In shadows deep where our weary hearts were cast,
Hatred blooms, for the garden’s trust is past. 
Stubborn weeds now choke what love had sown,
Their roots entwined, shroud what once was grown. 

Words once so tender shatter into fragments.
Bridge collapses; strength too frail, laments.
Apologies fall silent, they're lost in the air,
Echoes dissolve and fall into a hollow stare. 

We clutch at shards of once-mirrored memories,
Deceiving eyes with lame, fractured histories.
The warmth we knew lies hidden away out of sight.
In shallow graves that mock the hope of daylight. 

A circuitry of broken wiry veins remains,
Forgotten paths grow wild into tangled chains. 
New bridges rise yet they're shattered torn,
Their severed, frayed wires, make healing forlorn. 

We wander through this labyrinths of pain,
The ghostly whispers, lost, echo and remain. 
Warn us that healing comes in slowly with the tide,
That certain wounds we'll never turn or hide. 

Words of sorrow fall like bridges into the abyss.
No balm is enough for what collapsed, went amiss.
The past laying fallow, without consent or grace,
Still haunts us with the mask of love’s face.

Edicts of Silent Concession

A wall patched with lies
keeps the cracks from widening
but mementos fall
books, portraits, medals, and gifts—
gravity claims all relics

curtains shroud the crimes
centuries of stifled screams
glass betrays the hush
even the floorboards confess—
house itself is culpable

clothes, ties, hats, combs, wigs—
the trinkets of faded grace
heaped upon the street
flames burn their false finery—
pretense collapses to ash

palaces demolished
cubes enforce obedience
bankers on the run
food scraps sucked from rubbish binds—
can't stop the way of progress

rebellion outlawed
truth is now rule of edict
ugliness is king
screens implode in blinding flash
we gnaw at our own silence

mother will not come
her arms obliterated
father shamed and named
we crawl with pitiful bleats—
orphans of our own making

you call her art

they painted her backwards,
a body half-forgotten by gravity,
half-claimed by the red.
not blood,
but the color of memory
when it refuses to fade.
her hands—
not reaching,
but remembering
what it felt like
to be touched without bruising.
there is silk at her thighs,
or maybe it’s fog,
or maybe it’s the ghost of a wedding dress
that never got to say “i do.”
red eats everything here.
the sheets,
the scream caught in her hip,
the part of her that once believed
a closed door was protection.
they say she fell.
but look closely:
the fall looks like a dance
when no one tells you it’s a funeral.
her body is a question mark
curled around silence.
paint runs like a fever.
she was once white,
but white never stays.
not when you’ve been opened.
not when you’ve been framed.
what do you call a woman
who collapses so beautifully
that the canvas becomes her coffin
and her resurrection
at the same time?
you call her art.

Nine five one three

Nine, five, one, three—  
Is that truly all that remains of you?  
What fragments of me linger in your mind?  
If only you would take a moment to slow down  
And gaze upon the world that unfolds before you.  

Your way of life is shrouded in enigma.  
Your sixth sense, paired with your keen understanding of women,  
Collapses like a carefully arranged stack of dominoes —  
So unsettling, so uncertain, so trapped in its own confines.  

Please, help me unravel the intricacies of your thoughts.  
You've often claimed that men are creatures of folly,  
Incapable of taming their wild impulses,  
As many chase after fleeting desires  
And consume whatever is placed before them: so you said.  
Sister, sister, if only you could just slow down,  
For we are already halfway through this journey.  

When a past love transforms into merely a chapter  
In the book of our lives,  
It signals that you have reached the finish line of that phase.  
His number still drifts endlessly in my mind—  

Nine, five, one, three, is all that you have left of him.  
Please, help me grasp the depths of it all,  
Why is it so difficult to truly love?

Words Rearranged To Create Poetry

they told me
it had to rhyme
it had to mean something—
something big—
like death, or love,
or the smell of gasoline in a motel parking lot.

so I just sat there
with a busted lighter
and an ashtray full of good intentions,
and the words just
spilled out like a drunk
trying to find my shoes that I misplaced.

this isn’t a poem,
it’s just like life
with its pants down,
asking you to kiss it
before it collapses again,
waking up just to do it over 
and over again.

I hate my neighbour and want to murder them

I hate my neighbour and want to kill them.
I imagine their car being squashed by trucks like jam sandwiches. Red crusts.
I daydream that their staircase collapses like factories ready for demolition.
I fantasise they swallow glass instead of coffee and bleach in place of milk.
I conjure images of their flesh peeling like skin from a potato. Sliced in strips.
I sit and listen to their music. I stand and hear their television.
I hate my neighbour and want to kill them.
I see their death, to ease my life.

Old Shaftesbury Woman

Concrete dust drifts like sand across a coastal path.
An old woman battered with facial features that hung on her face, 
Disconnected and hanging. 
She leans forward in her blumonge, waterproof, unwashed nylon flares from Matalan. 
They ruffle in the wind as she looks out withdrawn onto the A350.

Her gaze is muffled by a sheen of intoxication, 
She tries with the majority of her self to keep her lids from closing, 
Mascara encrusted into the creases of her skin, 
Almost soldering her lashes together in a gluelike fashion. 
Leans hazardously towards the path of oncoming traffic,
Gesturing with open arms to the creatures of metal that push past her. 
The only trace of their moment in time is a gust that pushes her body back to safety as it, Confused and unobservant,
Collapses onto the urban stream that claims her yet again.

I watch as she continues to stumble on, 
Reaching out to every vehicle that steams on past, 
She does not see me. 
She is clogged by something greater and more sombre than I know. 
She is a perfect reflection of the time and place, 
She is what we all are feeling but continue not to show in fear of the outcome.
She is us.

I FEAR FOR MYANMAR

I had slept in peace
but woke to echoes of gunfire
the kind that doesn’t come from enemies
but from brothers turned into rivals.

It spills like crude oil in rivers
like wildfire tearing through dry hopes
leaving behind nothing
but smoke and dust where life once stood.

I fear for Myanmar
a nation drowning in its own reflection
chasing power like it’s oxygen
believing dominance is destiny.

I remember Sierra Leone
eleven years of blood and ash.
I know how a country collapses slowly
so yes, I fear for Myanmar.

Volcanic Eruption Of The Soul

Unmet expectations strike hard,
hurting where they languish long.
Unkept promises are blows earned,
hitting where they find no resistance.
Unkind words are slashes harsh,
ripping through the calm conscience.

The dormant volcano within the soul 
then gets the upsurge of melted psychic mantle 
in the crust of brittle tolerance,
that collapses in the caldera cradling the vent, 
reaching the magma chamber in the core.

The soul erupts the lava in the wild,
burns the gentle patience as it flows.
Uncontrolled, it blazes the heart, 
undowsed, it singes the sane senses.
The smoke billows up thick and intense,
clouds the deranged essence.
Words rise like Sphinx from the toxic ashes,
perish the patient face of mental restraint.

The flame surges in the stream of neurons,
no longer the carrier of conformist signals.
From the volcanic inferno of the soul
the erupted fiery lava called anger flows
in the torrents of blistering words,
scalding whatever comes in the way,
blazing a furrow for the reticent life.

Fire

Flames swallow oxygen,
duplicitous in their deeds,
circumventing steel barriers—
steel barriers doubling over.

Ashen soot cakes the walls;
walls crumble, interlacing with soot.
Pyres of fire lick the night sky;
crimson smoke suffuses the air.

Breathing in microparticles,
microparticles sticking
to fibrous membranes—
breathing collapses.

Lit match—ignition,
cinders glow.

Zen mode

the event horizon collapses
pure intent reshapes life’s lucid dream
spontaneity free from desire
manifests as a divine bliss stream

soul is a diamond free from blemish
pulse dual and single are the same
divine expression is heart’s refrain
descent and ascent, name of the game

How to make love to a didgeridoo VI

Antiquated pipeline geysers ravage starry nebulae, blast ash. The hurricane bankrupts reed origami masts. It splits overripe pomegranates. Wild animal guitar buzzes, echoing through shattered valleys.

Electrified abdomen dowels bobble and quiver. Balloons, gemstones, hot coals ululate. Feral cello cherries frost and educate potholes. They mold cracked roads into jagged mosaics of fire and ice.

Fractured aqueduct sprays liquid yogurt galaxies across the void. The tempest collapses bamboo paper cranes. It bursts ripe garnet figs. Savage harp lion roars. Untamed lyre berries chant anthems.

BREAKFAST EGG

 BREAKFAST EGG

Thought reaches pinnacle 
plunges into its own mystery 
cracks open narrow self
an eggshell 
passes personal truth
into Cosmic Heart
region of Eternal life
this is all which is, was or ever will be
egg melts into One
time collapses
we eat it on toast
with salt and pepper
Time re-emerges

Remnant

As we expand
populations increasing
resources depleted
what will sutain us?

As wealth is held
controlled by the few
with so many deprived
when will there be justice?

As power is polarised
conflicts encouraged
the others abused
when will there be peace?

As we accelerate
communications ever faster
responses more instant
where are we heading?

As we leave behind
oceans polluted
space above cluttered
how will this end?

As society collapses
environment degrades
sea levels rise
who will survive?

As we lose intelligence
to artificial control
our humanity lost
who will we be?

The remnant will subsist
knowing how to cope
reusing repairing restoring
what little is left
finding new hope.

Serenade of the Sea 03-11-23

Under the dark high flying clouds
resides the forgotten home of loneliness.
Its gnarly whispers of welcome, cold
colder than the sea.

Yes on this faint moonlit beach
the icy sea laps and sings gently,
so gently
as if your fingers are running through my hair
and the wind is your voice.

The wind wails sorrowfully of broken promises
and the sea, it breaks and collapses
flooding the beach with its salted tears.

But nevermind all that,
for the sun must rise
and the day must follow suite, though,
even when I open my eyes
I admit that I cannot forget you.

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