Nightmare On A Dead End Path To Hell Poem by Ted Sheridan

I don’t have an honest inclination to reflect
On why I am not now or have never been
A part of the whole picture thingamajig
Or why every wildflower under the sun has conceded
To the superiority of the ramble weeds
That they of the many varieties have been forsaken, over all others
And the brambles should then reign the more powerful seed
Being carried by the winds and birds to the ends of the earth
That hellish thorns and twisted vines of overgrowth should
Block the blessed path to Man's epiphany
Of being crowned the chosen one at length
It is that we must now take and trek the hard cold truth
Remembered to all the Angels as mere mortals
Mortals who have tasted the forbidden fruit
From the hand of our own former rib
And who without a guitar or harmonica reed properly tuned
In the key of C
We are just so many weak men worn from the rock of ages
Nothing more than simple grains of sands so to speak
Or just so many men as Dylan said who are trying in vain...
'To ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay'
Our words as toiled thought are left drenched and written in blood
On acid based paper, manufactured with only tempered grace
While Union Camp and Weyerhaeuser cut down an old forest
And then replant crap
To print the latest paperback edition of a revised King James

And as for me....
I who am determined not to matter
Sit in my retirement chair on wheels...hovering around the issues
With my crutches at rest next to my dead dog's best friend and my
Rare and imported hollow wooden leg with the cross bones tattoo
Drinking in the poison prescribed to me by a Doctor Woo
Watching as my face splits, divides and begins to die…
Reflected in the mirrored eyes of a fly on the wall of my room...



2007 © T Sheridan