So Long, Solitude!

No direction or sense of place.

First, become lost, maybe then, found

Now unbound, fall into the hands of fate. Sails set with the half-shattered mast

Many moments come to pass, sound and still.

Such catharsis from once dragged, now let go.

Weary from being held onto too tight.

Quiet night, embrace me still

Embrace me still,

Bitter bed sheets

So swift and sure.

I have become tiresome,

As lonely sensual slumber

Drifts all night long.

No quiet company

In my sweet solitude,

Silent yet cumbersome.

Such gentle breaths

Raised rhythmically sound

And I slept on, swimmingly so.

Mindfulness poem No.3

Then there was silence.

For four weeks every morning finally,

My mind a terrible master, silent.

So silent I felt sane.

Green grass, plants, warm sun glow,

Subtle smoke haze wisps away.

Dotted ladybugs, dragonflies,

Perched upon neighbouring leaves.

I held tight, my cigarette

Cherry facing in.

I closed my eyes, till

It burnt my finger and thumb.

Poplar fluff caught in spiders’ silk;

Spiders’ silk caught in sunlight

Brought colours back to life.

After all, waking to harsh morning rain

Surprised me with open gates,

Blue sky and heavens embrace.

My thoughts, so loud

I’m afraid to be understood.

Today I only wish I had quiet company

So I didn’t have to second guess

Such morning glory.

Shadows Cast Over

Would you rather,

Admire someone from a distance.

Let the light of grace glimmer off from afar,

Capture beauty, briefly under sacred sunlight.

Or be too close,

Let your shadow cast over them.

To cower under shades of desperation,

To touch their beauty beneath fear and loathing.

Someone, somewhere, sometime ago

Rummaging through piles of old worn clothes,

Stray hairs belonging to strangers are found.

Stumbling back as if physically struck,

I am quick to brush the hair off in fear

This would trigger some awful reverie.

Though my body yearns to touch the past,

So I must hold tight that sole strand in thought.

Held under sunlit close inspection,

Ponder over the length of blonde complexion

And how of yore it uncurls whence pulled tout.

If I didn’t take to abandon in

Those dying moments of limerence or grace.

It’d be easier to distinguish

Whoever’s hair this is, although instead

All my nostalgias bound by bittersweet taste.

Gianluca Polacci Byrnes

Gianluca Polacci Byrnes

Gianluca Polacci Byrnes