a song for the weathered

fantasy at the front door
knocking and rocking
just below the gates of
hell’s side entrance(you know the one)
for servants and sell-outs

black coffee
with a black phone
black footsteps
that lead to a black throne

only the keyboard is white

sitting here on humble hands
there is

a cigarette lit
in submission
a letter writ
in remission
as a clock is fit
to ignition

he’s getting older now
as lungs draw oxygen
in a laborious fashion
and sleep deviates
from function to necessity

the thrill of the chase
subsides and
with a prozac prose

he accepts honor
in this new defeat
and mindlessly repeats
a silent invocation
to dispel the mental malefactors
that seek to destroy him

there is no
starting over
from the last
save point

it’s now time to quit
to follow a path less insane
rolling forward
in a sideways tumble
with chemical changes in the brain

he’d rather write
than speak
words spoken are
too easily
taken with no value
and given little meaning

whereas words written
have the power to
shake you
interpret you
tossing you from
the balcony of complacency
into the pit of remembrance

words written
resemble rationale
renting a small space
inside the mind

he’s written many words
and hopes that someday
you will
hear them, fear them
or maybe just cheer them


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