Watching Me, Watching Somebody Else, Watching Me.
Young and precious in his words and
Unfurling a red carpet to mark his way;
Befuddled by puddles,
He traverses the grandiose scarlet
Of his lexicon,
Avoiding the indignity of wet feet;
The righteous way is
Preserved in amber,
Suspended like a mosquito
Perfectly formed and holding
Its biology close despite the passing
Of such time.
It is his rite of passage to believe in the rules
Of poetry and honesty, of ascension
To something better,
But he will only ever become a man,
A good man,
But a man.
And in his eyes I see
A love of his station,
Ripe fruit hangs low from every tree,
‘What do my heroes’ words
Mean to me?’
But he is puzzled as to why
There seems no poetry in others’ lives.
Out in the world
The guttural feeling of meaning is fleeting,
He is one of the lucky ones –
To have a place he can go.
Necessity knocks the stuffing from the abstract
He is blessed with his facility;
Hyperactive critical faculty
Which takes pleasure
Where others see nothing,
And as the years transpire,
And his fuse burns shorter,
And the world gets smaller,
He might get desperate,
Bewildered by the world’s pain,
Wherever fate pulls him
He won’t distain;
His burrowing soul
Will come to know
That the bottom of the hole hides nothing
And that the truth of life
Is in the digging.