Time is a deceiving song;
Manacled constructs that constrict the flow of the now.
I cannot perceive the past or future;
It is inconceivable when living moment to moment,
Hand to mouth,
On a knife’s edge;
My thoughts are consumed by an unceasing melody.
I live life like a musician, who composes a song which falls on deaf ears.
I write by the stream of consciousness
Like a bird who scours the heavens for food and shelter.
The power of my conviction,
My will to create shares the same forces
As the tides of the sea’s tempest.
I am an enclave of soul and rhythm.
My poetry is improvised jazz that stirs to orchestrate
Hidden universes residing in the cerebellum.
Aligning your spine and opening the third eye
To see what affronts your internal remedy.
I don’t know truth but I do know the art of lies.
I can dress a beautiful lie and sew golden laces
And fabricate fiction if that’s what you want to hear.
I cannot strip day to day truth; it remains hidden from view.
Time is a deceiving song,
But now is my gift to you.
This wall is not merely bricks and mortar:
A thousand hands, flesh and bone, aches and cries, son and daughter
Reside pressed against this towering intruder.
Their fingerprints mark like signatures
Embossed across his cloak in blood red torture.
Leaving traces of souls unable to penetrate his formidable armour.
Before I go and delve into the ocean
Of time lost and time forgotten
Sink into the unknown depths of unsound mind
Cast adrift in vague untamed commotion.
Before I go and wander
Through the twists and turns of lanes
Like veins of my aged hands-
A wild and organic maze-
Each boulder, each ridge, each line
Marks the lands of memory’s haze.
I gaze at this foreign landscape uncertain… dismayed.
Before I go against the desert storm
That disperses each grain of sand
Trespassing thought with unwavering command.
Lost in meandering internal discourse
My thoughts drive the insurgent waves;
A tsunami of scattered and convoluted connections.
Wide eyed at my unfamiliar surroundings:
Unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar boundaries.
Where am I? Who am I? That is the unrelenting question.
In my room I examine trinkets, pictures and books to reawaken
Perhaps this will rouse the promise of adventures once taken.
I hope for that one single revelation.
Before I go, scrutinise this frail faced canvas once more.
Does this worn portrait express my life’s score?
The passages of time imprint upon the surface
Marking days of raucous laughter
Days of frantic and wild resolve
Days of hardship and tales of woe.
Before I go
Know that I was
Know that I am
Remember this before I go.