And, all I want, from the Gods, is; a piece, a morsel, a crumb, a second… …of peace.
As the unlit hours slip, slip, slip. Slide away, into obscurity. The hypothetical tears, non-existently drip, drip, drip. The anger fades, for a viewable eternity. Sounds escape, my cloying ears, and, my daydreams of nightmares, like, turning pages, can only rip, rip & R.I.P.
The epitaph reads…
‘Here lies sleep; an untruth laid to rest. Succeeded by nothing, but, nothingness; only slept with second-best.‘
I never knew that they could live solely on land. In such great, huge, applauding numbers. Now… I… Tilikum, am gonna torture and kill, the next one to stand, over my depressed, drooping dorsal; encumbered. Blood… hair… silicone.
I can still remember the day I was caught. In a purse seine net, webbed with regret. Never… to… return. They lured our parents away, they wailed, they fought. But, our black and white futures, had already been beset. Tears… still… burn.
I’d heard about them from my mother. Telling h(a)unting stories after she broke her fasts. Hunting… to… survive. She said that eating ‘Otary’ kept us from eating one another. And, how the circle of life, turned, to keep the future ahead of the past. A death… for… a life.
The circle stopped turning, the day I was entombed. The Land-Otary filled it with water, making an aqua-prison. Round… and… round. With my flippers and flukes they make me beg for food. I sing nightly for my supper, my freedom, but only the circle, listens. Round… and… round.
So, today, I’m gonna do it. I’ve finally squared my circle. I’m taking no prisoners, no shit, just a scalp. Nap… the… kid? I dare, no, double dare, anyone, to rival this berserker. Staying alive? There’s more chance of me crossing the Alps. Flip… the… lid.
…with the, surliest Faeries, the even-tempered, ghoulish ghosts, and, the Merriest, Men of Olde.
I’ve sweetly dreamed, nightmared, woke and slumbered…
…in the long- enchanted, bewitched, Sherwooded Forests, sung and, danced, with the sycamored, groves of Tír na nÓg.
I’ve hurt, delighted, sated and hungered…
…by the Banshees wail, along the forgotten gleann, and, finally, hunt and caught, squirrel cloaked, and Robin Hooded, treasure troves.
I’ve hidden and found, disguised and revealed, scaled and bunkered…
…in the fabricated hollows, of yesterday’s, great achievements, in the snugly fitting memoried, jumpers, in the ever-weaving, tapestries that life has wove.
I’ve been a rogue, a rover, a drunkard, a redeemer…
in snug, in pub, in person, in love, at home, to betterment, to worsten, without a care, with consideration, caused loss, caused gain, caused hate, caused love, caused devastation, took hold, and, to myself, wholly shook, repented – in the presence of Friary Tuck, and, now, am able, to not just reach, but be, at heavenly home.
I’ve seen the wood ‘fore the trees. I’ve seen what was, what would, before me. I’ve traversed; past, present, future, wood, would, and whatever will be.
Cold hands wink sarcastically to a warm heart as they chuckle awkwardly at a – once too many times repeated – cliché of a joke
Grazed knees, and, palms – still sore – encounter a slip, trip, and, fall from getting ahead of themselves
A furrowed brow delves and burrows millimeter by millimeter into the skin that left it so helplessly on show
Cold feet cuddle a cold shoulder all three stand huddled by the smouldering embers of what once; was
A wry smile remembers where it all went awry At the soup kitchen And, hardens at the thought of soft, toasty kisses like freshly baked bread No longer capable of being culinarily conjured No longer able to taste No longer on the menu
That, warm heart, is, now, poor penniless, broke Back out into the unrelenting cold Broken As it sits cross-legged getting-ever-colder and, homeless – sleeping rough
This, now, bitter heart, is mostly; not sleeping at all Begging for change But, really it is begging for things to go back to the way they were Begging to be whole; again
Most of the time, I’m lost. Most of the time, unfound. Most of the time; I’m wishing, well, to be 100 leagues, underground.
Most of the time, I’m stuck, thinking. Most of the time, vanished, sinking. Most of the time; to depths deeper, than the Mariana Trench, where light has never, been seen, blinking.
Most of the time, unweeping, hurts. Most of the time, trapped, inside. Most of the time; I feel ashamed, and, upset, that, oceanic tears, will never make, a risen tide, of these long, deserted eyes.
Most of the time, pain flirts. Most of the time, teased, all over. Most of the time; on dates, unmedicated, in dated, conversations, on dates, wide-awake, and, inundated, when sober.
Most of the time, I dream of freedom. Most of the time, I dream of peace. Most of the time; the dove I am, flies high, away, to escape the closed-eyed, cag-ed fact, that, eternal slumber’s, reaping, will be, when I’m, finally, released.
There’s a river between us. Because of Cromwellian features.
Not the Trent, nor, the Shannon, but, the Styx.
There’s an ocean between us. Because of how far Cromwell, still, reaches.
Not the Pacific, or, even, the Atlantic, but, the briny depths of my dreams.
This insatiable thirst for the water of life. This famishment for the salmon of knowledge. This yearning, and, longing to know the refugee struggle. Of, an, escaped to Mapled land, fleeing brother.
poorman'sdreams 