untitled lines

irony

is hearing ghost chains rattle
under a vernal sun

is the possession of
a solar powered cure for the world's pain
by one exiled to the dark side of the moon 

is the meditation of mortality
drowning in seas of young colour
humming with a surfeit of life

context sometimes estranges
bedfellows of familiarity

fresh turned earth smells like
pastoral idylls and
dreamy half-smiles of contentedness

on another day
it smells of pall-bearers' tears
and hopes temporarily run aground
on shoals of jagged reality