Flights Of Fancy - Poem by Andy Brookes
Truth is I turn like a weather cock,
This way and that as the wind dictates,
Tossing in my bed like a too live wire.
The rain washed the pavements this morning.
The night had seen the leaves fall,
Silent and secret, so as not to be detected,
Till they lay a magic carpet of red and gold.
The rush and hiss of cars under my window
Told me it was morning, the hour of rushing.
The hum of engines whine like angry insects
Sirens occasionally dissect their monotony.
The light seeped wearily, a slow blue winter light,
Like me there is no strength in it.
It offers no comfort but also has no answers.
A bell tolls distant, warning me to stay in bed
But as usual I rise with the small of coffee.
I drag my useless carcass into the warm kitchen
The florescent light buzzes inexorable, a harsh light.
Why do I always I feel lonely in the room full of strangers
I feel more comfortable with my imagined cohorts,
Which erupt from my imagination to stop me feeling isolated.
Madness you might think but a madness of my very own devising
A self torture that is somehow comforting.
I let the rest of the day slip by in mumbles and musings.
The dark comes early to the orange glow of street lights.
The clock ticks but time is elastic.
I read to tinny sound from the radio then wander off to bed.
And whose to say my dreams are not my true reality.
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