They'd warned me of the siren's call,
A potch of misremembered tales,
Told by sleepers, half awake.
No one warned me of the louder voices,
The ones that write large and black into your mind,
Quietly thundering their disapproval,
The eyes that watch but never blink,
The faces visiting unfaded,
towed through an invisible tide,
breaking against your eyelids, like the shores of a thousand mornings.
No shield,
no sword,
only intuition
Until you roll back the years,
The ages of education,
And expose the raw skin of attrition,
Where you play a beggarly war,
Honoured as sacrifice,
Part witness to a role
That played out
Millenia before you were born.
And begins once more
For no discernible cause,
But yours
|
|