Spinning in spiral

I creep into a tangle
Mildly plucked,
I’ve spun forsooth, a silvered web
Draped in need,
Dressed in lust, and endeavour
Sparkling eyes.

Look how she tries, endlessly tries
Let’s douse oneself,
Submerge ourselves
In dancing, we’re disguised from
Expectation’s hollow cries

I once hopped here, swirled in spiral
Trickled like a breeze
Upon an Autumn leaf
Where I joined in a dance
Red, yellow, Amber
Swivelling in splendour
Where here we lived within the spirit
Spurred on by the moment
A gust of sweet wind
Broke the grip of our comforts,
To free us, as we danced our way
Into the ground. Slumberbound.

We’ll still rise once again,
Like geometric, spiral soup
Nature sets our rhythm, and conducts our pulse
Nothing lasts forever,
Yet somehow the new sing, still
In a musical order, carried on
By the past and the older, time spent
Still timeless.

Written by Ellie Neves

Hung Witch


The Haunt

Which hangs,

In the air

Like static, unspent.

Is the fear of time, and purpose wasted.

Everyday which goes by,
 (Bye, bye)

Without a routine,
(With, or without?)

It can scratch against my ‘ground’

Like a big fat Bat (or a rat)

Round  bound   (hush hush, why why!?)
Hard sweeping brush.

It’s etching away at the trail which I’d marked myself, in the vain hope I could ever, if needed, turn to the tattooed ground.
(What, and be found?)

To remind myself of the way I am headed, and the way I have come.

The path upon which, I thought I had gained some footing, it’s fading.
(and i’m not far behind)

It is during these moments, when locked inside,

A tightly binding labyrinth,

Of excessive reflection, that I long for the traveller’s Compass, to remind me of…

Which direction to take? In order, to step forwards and march on!


Sometimes, the colours on life’s map become faded.



This story, of course, I leave to be continued…

Written by Ellie Neves

First Glass Bauble


A glass bauble hangs first,

Itself, upon bristles flat, fat and green.

In relief, windows shatter the surface

of the dome.

The canvas is cracked,

into several shards

Illuminating on
the curve, where the shine



Green bristles, flat though they are

Exist in as a life in the current of living,

A Christmas tree extrapolated,

From it’s homeland, and shipped right in

Through European borders; past migrants,

Lapping up the water, a tree’s lifeblood

Keeps it living, in motion.


The evergreen fingers, thread

Hung suspended, black mirrors.

Tree looks at it’s self- a picture of health

Whilst the light trapping sheen,

Coat of decorative, glassed bauble


Reflects an illusion of shattering,

The twiggy, naked sleepers,

Beyond doors- Willow’s Weepers.


 Written by Ellie Neves

piano inner organs modified vintage


Original Manuscript

Sing. Sing, Sing.
Revealling, in a moment so sudden
That other, distant sound
Breaking softly, the glass cage
Of noise, to which you were bound.

It is melodic, and harmonious.
Serene, so as to distinguish itself
As being unique, and deviant,
Distracting, to behold.
Sing. Sing, Sing.

Amplified by recognition, it feeds
On realigned senses,
Inviting and enticing
Comprehension, of the proof
That there does exist, a brighter path

A different path, stripping out
The discord, the friction, the clash
With undeniable rhythm, it leads up,
Up. Up. Up. Up Up!

The refrain, the song, and the new
New, and the old, old harmony


Acheing muscles relax
Instructed by the compelling,
Those tones, those beats: Enabled,
You soothe and you slip,
Dropping into dance, allowing lost chords
To become your own teacher.
The song is reviving, the song
Is exciting, and you begin to remember
A Cappella, a cappella!
Where there was dischord, now hear
The choral rhapsody.

Settle back in,
To the symphony you created
In the beginning, out and beyond,
The tangles and the set-backs.

Original manuscript, so completely,

Your own.

Gorgeous strong roots mother fucker

Save the Sheffield Trees

Long live the branches which stretch and sprout like alveoli, backwards, into Sheffield’s skies.
Long live the liberators of fresh air, rebels of the smog which was
The fumes of the factories and fudge worth in soil
The smack in the back thanks for hard worker’s toil
Soothed by those branches as the lung dies
That it might live, given that green philosophers still drink
The toxic from the cloud, to salvage all that lost sound to the cough
Which kept from the people the gift of some silence to think
Of other, better things, greener things.

Dedicated to Sheffield’s trees. To find out more about Sheffield Tree Action Groups, follow the link:

STAG- Sheffield Tree Action Groups on Facebook

Written by Ellie Neves

Out of the night that covers me,
      Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
      For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
      I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
      My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
      Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
      Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
      How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,

      I am the captain of my soul.

-By William Ernest Henley

We Have Come to be Danced


Explore: Life is like a garden. You can grow through what you go through, then write…

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