The magician that is memory,
listens to old laughter,
remembering rudimentary lessons
that were taught but never learned,
teases the dreams from an alternate reality,
and feeds them into recollections,
making it impossible to discern
where the myth fades, and the man is earned.
I wake to children crying,
and you walk in to my world,
or I wake to find that I
am in yours, of course,
I am never certain
which reality truly exists,
I resist the urge
to purge my eye of the tears
the years have collected,
all this time, I have protected
myself from what must never be
recollected.
I’ve known some quirky characters,
as I am sure you can believe,
like my mate with one leg called Dave,
whose other leg’s called Steve.
I know I’m thin on top,
so not to be caught unawares,
I’m tattooing rabbits on the bald,
so from a distance, they’ll look like hares.
Interrogation, outmoded,
the demoted torturer
suddenly realises,
Google surmises,
taxation – a myth
we wish
did not exist.
My weapon of choice
was truth,
my method of delivery
was decision,
my heaven, absent voice,
was youth,
death heard love
in devilry.
The sound I hear from the world,
the music I feel from it’s soul,
is something that haunts,
and hates, it hurts and grates;
such Heavy Metal.
Such Heavy Metal.
