Of all the times that came before
I felt myself a troubadour
I wonder whether I changed much
Or remain the same, merely stuck?
A mind that dies is tragedy
A mind imbued sees rhapsody
They can be both one and the same
A man in health inflicted, lame.
Spare me your sensitivities
These words and sensibilities
I’ve heard the noise infectious, tense
Take them back to origin whence.
This glue it binds a pen to me
To write a dirge, an elegy
Lament upon whom I could have been
A voice not heard, a man unseen.
Such spinning wheels beneath my feet
Such a well worn path down this my street
I tire of things unchanging and flat
I cannot be more specific than that.
Please release me from these doldrums
I tire of sitting, twiddling thumbs
The devil makes work for such digits idle
So I’m in hell if I believe the Bible.
Do I need help to get from here?
I have the skill to fight this fear
I have the strength and I command
To do this all through my own hand.
© Kris Blackburn 18/02/13