158.I still can see your face, in the thorny roses. (04 Dec 2016).

Not for the first time, and probably not for the last, it’s been a wee while since the last piece posted here. This was never going to be a blog that was characterised by the white hot heat of the speed of delivery as one update after another touched down. I’d like to put up more at shorter intervals, but I also want to make sure that what’s put here feels to me like it belongs in the open. That there’s at least something about it that justifies it’s not being deleted before I even log in here.  Without any more unnecessaries, welcome to the latest morsel from the kitchen.


158.I still can see your face, in the thorny roses. (04 Dec 2016).

The Reaper he’s never late,

The Angels they’re never early,

And I’m not the only one to blame,

For your currently mournful,

Decomposing, disposition,

Because, after all, I’ve heard that it’s been said.

That all great tragedies have been started,

By someone with a face, that’s just as fair as yours,


But this particular one, that’s of our own making,

We finished up with words hot and cold, it’s true,

Words which, ironically, have always kept us close together,

And though we’ve long since parted,

I still can see your face, in the thorny roses,

And you can see mine too when you bloom.


©Jim Laing 2016.

About Jim Laing

The Buddha said there were four kinds of people. Those who run from dark to dark, those who run from light to dark, those who run from dark to light and those who run from light to light. From a life going from dark to dark to having a few years running from dark to light, with scuffed hands and knees from sometimes falling, I may be getting the hang of it now. How it began is not now how it is, I need a quiet space, After the noise of the day, So I take sanctuary in the creativity, And my soul feeds, On sometimes dark, Sometimes light fantasy, And I dare like many to work, But stay up off my knees, To dream, perchance to suffer, But always still to dream. Here are things mostly lyrical and poetic, with nonsense sometimes, reviews and personal musings. The coffees hot and always black. The words not necessarily so.
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