I am,
By my nature,
Abhorrent to,
Those who’ve paid attention,
Listening to my carefully whispered criticisms,
Seen my soul spill out like a smog,
Venomous and foul,
Blanketing the cornerstones,
Laid by the hands of real men,
Whose existence can be felt,
Can be torn apart,
Through time and targeted pressure –
I am:
The Mediocre Deconstructor,
Damned to die young-at-heart,
Propelled by the passion of the sacred,
Antagonized by the interruption of a wall,
He-who-will-be free from the prison of
Remembrance.
I am,
So much less than I
Should’ve, would’ve, couldn’t’ve
Been.
When I thought I was ill,
Doctor Rieux prescribed a,
Not so healthy,
Dose of self-reflection,
Inwards and outwards,
To cast out the shadows of my soul.
The Good doctor,
Blessed with enough confidence,
Reminded me that I am like him:
A story-teller,
Which is to say a dream-thief,
Who imagines themselves into an amalgamation,
To be parsed out,
One facet at a time,
To the carousel of strangers,
Intrigued by the tune,
Of a man who should not be.
I am,
Very much like the rest of you:
Alone,
Carrying the echoes of the home,
Of our star-dusted ancestors,
Brightly screaming,
In the canvas that stretches across,
Time and space,
With miles and minutes between our selves,
Hopelessly reaching out to be heard,
Before it’s too late.
But it’s always too late:
You could fit a thousand lifetimes,
Between the second the secret leaks from our lips,
And the moment we remember to listen.
By then,
The present has passed and the future has twisted,
To catch the eye of another promisee.
Post-Neology 