Peter Lilly: Poems

A magnitude of grey refracts the sun into a wide spectrum. If time is taken to watch it, see it slowly changes: ever ageing in smooth perfections. The firmament of the sky's skin is beautiful, regardless of weather. This rotating work of art is permeated with the stylistic splendour of its painter's mind. Fragments of storms, which were split by sunlight, are beautiful as they rain themselves dry, exposing coursing veins glowing neon in the ambience of echoes of completeness to come. This rotating work of art is permeated with the stylistic splendour of its painter's mind. And I am loosened from fabric shackles having grown my own linen and exhaled reasons to move with the painter's gift of air.  Written 28-30/12/12.  We can learn so much from the changing beauty of the sky.

Man. Vulnerable, dependant. Suckling, giggling, crying . Universal significance profoundly juvenile. God. God.  Immovable, sustainer. giggling, crying, accommodating . immeasurably deepening love's definition. Man. A poem made up of two quintain structures reflecting on God's self-accomodation in the incarnation. Written 20/12/12.

There's a clamour in your veins hoping for some warmth. Crisp futures thaw slowly and collage the pavement with decaying autumn. There's a clamour in your veins and your blood is sedated. The frost-bite doesn't bother you when you're nodding through festive freeze, unaware of your own shivering. There's a clamour in your veins and it soothes you from conscious fears. Childhood promises are all cooked up from poppies and when you're permeated with gear it feels like Christmas. There's a clamour in your veins; track-marks leading from pinpricks to amputation. The pain of withdrawal would bring the beauty of future but you're perforated by these fairy lights that suck significance from nature. So you choose this clamour in your veins; your own consumption, and you'll defrost from this winter still bitter, but without the means to taste it. Written December 2012.

Motion; negligible, like breathing not travelling. Whilst all knowing spectators questioned lenses, you were moving. Time sheds now like a serpent's skin and splits along it's central vertebrae. Futures spread from a central point in bacterial mitosis. It mists with the sickness of confusion and baffles pilgrims who are unacquainted with blindness. Written November 2012.