Dead Ends

A stem of

                         dried out

three pronged
                         ivy leaves
cling to a

               white stone wall

like the footprints

                        of a raptor. 

Trying to Escape 

In guilt's suburbs,
the problem is
to get out
you all too often,
first have to catch
a bus or train
to its centre.


We're crumbling like a war-torn city
most have left behind.

Why can't it be like in the movies,
speeding to the airport,
dodging bullets,

and as the last plane
accelerates down the runway,
holding hands, we jump on,
and rise
up into the sky?

Tristan Moss

If you have any comments on this poem, Tristan Moss would be pleased to hear from you.