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The Web Poetry Corner

Paul Lancaster


Grantham, England, UK

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Paul Lancaster

Trained faces with Private`s smiles,
The uncomfortable chill of frozen expressions.
Looking through the darkness,
Into the trenches of the enemy.

Solitary soul, drained.
Crippled twists with a closing door.
Tormented by lesser men,
With a flickering presence.

Rolling minds,
Falling like apples.
An empty room,
And a conscience.

Come in, its warm.


Paul Lancaster

Homeless and poor.
Hopeful crys of a shallow pool.
Frozen over, glistening light of reflection.
Crack the surface, jump in to the infinately deep pool of destitution,
Stuggling for air, twisted torsos.
Thrashing in a hopeless rhythm of beating drums,
Born into the world of dreamers.



Paul Lancaster

Open eyed to the bathed solitude of sanctuary.
This highway of infinite grace and beauty,
Perpetuated through the few who know,
Like some drawn and moulded eliptical light.

When all is lost we hang from the stars,
Their futile swinging, chased by the wind,
Until all is calm and we hold down the dawn.
The comforting stillness of the beaten wind and a fading light.