Greaser

I wondered what chords you strummed in your dreams,

as your guitar lay sleeping in your arms, unharmed

by the arguments in my head. I fed you the lies

you wanted to hear, so you could feel safe.

Your fingers twitched and I feared you would wake, break

the silence with your violent orchestra, your frustrations

fuelled with the vast libations you practically inhaled.

The challenge of children and a ‘normal life’

aged you before it could be realised the shackles

were forged by a man wearing your face, sharing your shame

and whistling what you could only whisper;

whilst you mastered the art of faking.

You dashed your own dreams, instead of dusting them off,

and the motorbike man who didn’t give a damn, died

as your guitar lay sleeping in your arms, unharmed.

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