Out of Sight

The airport departure hall kind,
Beyond the last wave
When even the shadow of you
Has disappeared from my view
Leaving only the ache behind.

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.



It’s a long way until tomorrow
When I’m caught within the storm,
With the choir of all my sorrows
Singing on until the dawn.

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Making Your Way

The desert defines you after a while.
You become the trek
Not flesh and bone,
Like sand now
As you freeze at night
And burn in the furnace heat
Of the noonday sun.
Your identity as fluid and false
As the trick of the mirage
That guides you away from home.

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Too Blind

I can’t see you,
Just the echoes
Where you used to be.
Because I’m a lost boy
Confused about the direction,
Whether I’m heading
For heaven or hell.
For I stopped feeling
When I started bleeding
Many moons ago.
And all that’s left
Is half a bottle of whiskey
And these scars
That keep my eyes shut,
I’m down on my knees
Begging for redemption
Knowing the game is up.
For there is just an absence
A black hole in the aether
And the echoes
Where you used to be.

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

The Ghost

It’s part of the bitter harvest,
Parcelled up, a gift from you.
Sealed by a kiss,
With every teardrop earned;
The very least I was due.

It’s carried on the breeze
These dreams of light, driven by machines,
Captured by my sails.
And you’re part of the design
With all winds steering me back to you.

With your touch like ice
Like dark and arrows aimed for my heart.
Because words once said
Will always haunt a soul, and this touch
Of frost was the least I was due.

This traveller’s journey
Has taken me to this crossroads before.
In search of a healer, not the cause.
Because you’re the ghost in my mind
With all roads leading back to you.

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Red Light

photo credit:  via photopin (license)

photo credit: via photopin (license)

This is not Pretty Woman.
There is no knight in shining armour
Coming to rescue you.
Just hands holding you down,
Bodies that buy you,
People that own you
But don’t see you.
When you were once
Somebody’s sister,
Somebody’s mother,
Somebody’s sweetheart.
But always you’ll be
Somebody’s daughter,
Somebody’s Child.

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.