They told me statues would weep for me
After I lost my heart in a foreign country,
They told me the Gods would offer me peace
But they lost me when I heard them speak.
Venom, hidden poisons on their breath
Like thunderclouds around my head.
Lies are always told to solders scorned
By the deathless tide of tired war.
I would like to paint
Though I can’t find the strength
To handle the brush.
I could make movies,
Films breathe life into dreams –
But mine stay hidden.
The stoic fool
With eyes like a magpie,
Lost in a world of Rhyme
And reason – he survives
As a spark in the absurd,
Knowing and playing
With the frayed and yellowed
String that connects the narrative
In the minds of all who
Exist on the mortal stage.
Aye, the stoic fool survives.
We all rest on cheap street,
Some convulse in wasted anger
Red eyes shot at the rain,
Those that succeed do so in silence.
The brave seek the jungle,
And move like they were born
To the scorn of the ones
Who refuse to believe the street exists.
Red wine rain on New Year’s day,
The first bell and the street turns crimson.
Catch what you can, they last.