Promises have no small print.
They are to be weighed with care.
They are not mere words spoken.
They prove only truth not dare.
They act as a sacrament:
A foundation set in stone:
Love’s finger codes each of them,
Fate makes each of them atone.
They are providential:
They become subject to suit
Even the smallest flower,
When it was yet just a root.
Promises are marks of love,
Just hunger is what they ease.
They mark a higher power,
For hope is what they increase.
A lover once said:
Blood was thicker than water.
He proved it.
International normalised ratio
Indicates coagulation.
Radioactive equivalent water thickness
Indicates purity.
But purity of blood
Sometimes
Causes an uproar.
Pure bloods are incorrect.
Still lovers leave.
Blood is thicker than water.
It begs the question then:
When thirst beckons
Why is water chosen?
Drink blood, lover.
I stopped playing a game
and went on to twitter:
I saw hunters paying to shoot
a defenceless critter;
there was freedom, pinned down,
and protests, and chanting;
faiths seemed to be tweeting,
so much noise, such ranting;
videos of poor souls beaten,
forced to silence their voice,
in this scientific world,
there was no question of choice;
women raped and murdered,
courts of law with no power,
children locked on borders,
Rapunzel dead in her tower;
impeachments were suspect,
they all seem beguiling,
the rising of fascism,
people I love smiling;
worlds were split asunder,
icebergs weak enough to turn,
glaciers bursting like thunder,
forests continuing to burn…
I remembered what I’d learnt
about the dying of the light –
how young we were then, Dylan
To be thankful for this sight.
I rage as much as I can,
Struggling to stay the same –
My tired heart needs to breathe,
So, I return to my game
Hearts Still Care 
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