The verses he remembers
Are the ones he taught himself
At the ripened old age of twenny-one.
Each one written in his own hand
Bout the roads that he had trodden
In the short lead up to becoming his own man.
The years have since passed deftly
And the rigours of his wisdom
Have been quick to follow up behind.
'Life is shit,' he does decry
With a twinkle in his eye
But in his heart he knows it only to be true.
He has shouldered other's burdens
Like the crucifix of yore
But noone sees it and he's lonely in his war.
He nourishes his cuts
Keeps them open and still hurting
So what made him, he won't let himself forget.
On the outside he seems unshaken
All bravado, but it's just a game
To cover up his underlying shame.
What he sees as his own failures
Are not those beasts at all
But an innocence that was sullied early on.
Still, he takes on liability
For the hand that he was dealt
So his mind can make sense of this ordinary mess.
But the walls begin to crumble
His old verses rhyme no more
A better way beckons him through a wide and open door.
To cut and run is his old habit
But this time he knows that it's all different
This time he'll spear his quarrelsome, ancient foe.
To sacrifice warmth and connection
For a cleaner shot at life
Seems a bittersweet but necessary succour.
Now he sits above the sea port
And watches over, out to sea
What lies beyond the misty limits of his past?
'No forlorn thing sits out there
On that distant salty plain,
It's high time I let these worries ebb and wane.'
So adrift, he cuts himself free
With a heave and heavy sigh
And finds his peace again in the ocean's sagely tide.
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