When you’re sitting and a staring at the back of your eyes,
And a wondering why the ink doesn’t leak from the skies,
When you’re longing for forgotten friends, befriending thoughts from long ago,
When the robot up the front is a stomping and groaning,
Complaining that your joints need a fixing and oiling,
When your desk is unyielding, your books stacked up neat; and your mind is beat as you slump in your seat.
You think fast for your words are your shield,
Your voice is projecting but your thoughts are withheld,
Phrases are flying, slamming, bouncing and singing,
Your hearts a beating as it drips from the ceiling;
And you watch it congeal, caked in cold sweat,
And there’s nothing you can do to stop it just yet,
The puddle is rising while you’re glued to your chair,
It drips down your neck and kisses your hair,
You just sit there a hoping to be awoken, for that robot to be rusting, for that sky to be inking, for that heart to be slowing, for those words to be soft as they fill up your boots and soak up all reason.
Now you’re remembering this trial when your hair is a greying, the bagpipes are a playing, your clothes are loose-hanging, shadows are falling, sunset is calling and your life’s a regret, for these moments gather up in a place you forget, a corner for choices you haven’t made yet,
And know you’re a sitting with yourself to blame,
Spilt sand in your hands, a feeling of shame,
You regret your waste but waste your winnings, lose your sight when lost in winnings, You should have been leaning, your toes to the ground,
Your manner of speaking not some mourning sound,
So keep oiling, pushing, freeing, and seeing,
And I’ll see you a beating with the pulse of true being.
(Image taken in Rome, Italy)
(c) Finbar Piper 2017
