Wednesday, 18 November 2015

This Could be Another Me





this could be another me.
see the man down there with his suit and polished boots?
all confidence and cock-a-hoop bravado.
feeling this world shift cold glass to chrome with all the emotion of a cactus?
I still recall those tender days when the monkees fell about and television didn't reward the talentless.
the hope and hearts of humankind lay in the hands of children with flowers in their hair and foolish dreams in their rolled up reefers.
not trapped within these cold confines that limits imagination and brings my days to a close, a life of chasing paper.
I could dream.
I still dream.
and in my dreams I dance with the ghosts of tomorrow who hold me close, in arms verdant fresh and strong, and spin the dance on polished floors down mirrored walls where silver cobwebs hang and trophies watch from lichen lintels the passing of my thoughts.
but who will hold me when the spotlight fades? when my children's faces retreat from me?
the door will close.
the light will cease.
a failing of wings and cloudless mumbles of goodbye.
such a waste when summer trips into the fallen leaves.
the crumbling brick face where
ivy marks the windowsill and where lovers once would climb.
and in the garden there is a pond and in the pond a statue stands but the fountain has gone dry.
I'm rambling now
but let me ramble for what harm can it do?
see the man down there?
a shrivelled husk of once-a-go whose children used him like a slide, a climbing frame for them to bridge.
arms will grow to jelly and the spine will twist as wire but the darkness doesn't scare me just the missing of them all.
this could be another me.
maybe i could make a deal with god?
cheat the fates and bone collectors as I thumb my nose and skip away with all memories and loved ones still with me.
this could be another me.
.
.
.
Russell Cuts the Corn From The Brewers Whiskers.

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