Ordinary Person

A lament rises from these dry bones,
encased in a coffin of a wasted life,
when I was young, my father,
the demon, said, “I am thine
and thou art mine,”
with a devilish, deceitful grin,
when I was young, my mother,
the angel, said, “Stay strong and
surely, you’ll succeed,”
with a sincere, simple smile,
when I was young, my brother,
the stoic, said, “Your
feelings are yours alone;
don’t even give them a peak,”
with a stern, stubborn face,
when I was young, my sister,
the naïve said, “Yours is the world,
and all possibilities become
actualities if dreamt into existence,”
with an innocent,
irreproachable charm,
when I was young, my lover,
the impassioned said, “Kiss me,
you’re the (soul) of this soul
and never will I ever abandon
all that’s you and I,”
with a feverish, ferocious hold,
when I was young, my second lover,
the kind, said, “Paint the colours
of your heart on the canvas of
my being and grasp me tenderly
under the sliced moonlight,”
with a sweet, soft touch.

Time drifts,
and I’ve drifted with it,
but not elegantly.
Age carries,
and I carry it,
but not gracefully.

Life rises and falls,
and books meet dust,
and this room smells of mildew
and I’m fading, falling, slipping, sliding.

I’ve learnt much
and seen so much more.
I’ve touched much
and felt so much more.
I’ve tasted much
and heard so much more.

Love eludes me now,
spinning round and round,
setting everything without on
fire with her dance,
but never thawing the ice within.
Lust possesses me now,
echoing and echoing,
setting everything within on
fire with his voice,
and ever thawing the ice without.

Cheap motel rooms and cigarettes;
filthy sheets
and ashen hyacinths –
These I know, these I know,
intimately and intensely.
Perfume and cascading hair,
with eyes like
brown tourmaline –
Her I’ve never kissed,
her I’ve never kissed,
intimately and intensely.

The smog rises
and obscures my window,
the world’s full of blurred
objects and abstract shapes,
and a simulacrum
of truth is all I know,
everything is hazy imagination,
my vision’s blurred,
the smoke rises, and I exhale,
the sharp liquor burns my throat,
a fatalist’s escape
and I know I need the real,
but I also know
I want my delusion.

A lament rises from these dry bones,
encased in a coffin of a wasted life,
now that I’m older, I say,
“Life and death sing
the same song in the
the same key,
and what happened
will happen again,
and there’s nothing I can do
but cut through
weeds of paranoia,
despair and angst,
knowing I’ll never fully heal.”