Cowards write poems.
Anyone with half a gram of merit.
You were just a chubby bundle.
Just a shivering lump.
Of feather scratched skin.
Soft and peach wrinkled.
Take care of me.
Let me put aside
Resentment and Vitriol
The pre-morning dew.
Has seeped through our clothes
to the skin.
Aiming steadily towards
On the waves and the swells of an ocean
Of movement and irrepressible time,
We are carried, carried away.
And holding on,
I burst out of the stillness of sleep.
Pollute the night with a cacophony of sound.
My hard heartbeat roaring
My heavy chest heaving.
I'd think it a sign from the gods I think
If I were a little bit less of a cynic.
Tonight something broke in the back of my mind
And in the noise of the shower I cried and
Sun dappled faces move within
Illuminated streams of living in,
Summer out and winter in
yearly movement without, within.
It is difficult to play the society game
It is a difficult part
It is dangerous and daunting
I've struck gold with this time in between
the times when we went back to less nothing more something.
Less of the something we've been for nine years
and more of the nothing that turns on to his back with a sigh