Pick it…it won’t ever heal.

Don't presume to still know me,
I said to the wind and the fog;
Tied the message to a seagulls
Tail and turned my back on
You as you railed:
The storm of your anger
And bitterness rising
Across the telephone wires
Complaining that you
Are drowning while
I have fun.

You have rare moments
Caught in a trap of your 
Own making, a disaster
unfolding in some parking lot,
While I chip away at problems
Large and small
Trying to make 
A little sense of it all.
You brush away
Rare moments of lucidity
Amongst the lies to yourself
And others, bent and buckled
Wires in your head
Crossed and undone by
Some faulty engineer
With solder made of
Faulty acid metal,
Salts of morphine
The doctor's meddle
Dabbing it onto
The wounds and scars
Patching but not fixing
 The blossoming
Corruption of the program

You tell the seagull 
To send me your love - 
Across state borders
Mountain passes;
All the love you hoarded
Amongst the nuts and bolts
And screws of your dis-order
All the love you shied away from
Kept to yourself
Told me to run from
And when I ran
You told me to stop running
And return.

But I am not in the mood 
For obeying.
Not in the mood for your
Drunken fake praying
Not in the mood for your
Accusations, denials,
Your fists of freedom
Nor your sly shark smiles
I'm not in the mood 
For this at all - 
And never will be.
I knew you once
And loved you
That is all.

Leave a Reply