Too long standing, with
Back bowed, listening as
The words trip slip flip from
My mind’s handstongue, only
To die on the page, flopping listless
Like dying fish, until they lay dead and
Wasting, energy-less, for the next sweet touch
Of reader’s eyes, too long have I waited
Wanting, hoping, pushing, for some-
Thing new to arise, some great find, like
Semantic archaeologist, digging deep for
That one true rhythm that is mine,
Only to be told by inaction wrested from
The lips of those around, that what spews forth
Is no more real, or tangible to the touch,
Than you or I dreaming nothingness into being,
As such.
Bowed, waiting forever for life to
Return the favour, only realising by stealth
That waiting is no good for anyone’s
Health, but instead the striving for more,
But not more things, more meaning, or
Even more truth, just another day,
Un-bowed, with love and warmth
Under one roof.
So, wait no more do I, instead
I sing, of flowers and petals, of
Explosions and rings, with a screaming
Headless horseman breathing down
My back, I will keep on writing every
Day, until the words come no more,
And on that wordless day of life,
I will descend below the earth’s floor.