When did he grow so old? When did he admit there are places he’ll never go? Burnt holes in the paper maps Cratered space saving weight Every gram helps his craning back Woke up today As playdough caked in shapes Best he can remember From the kinder kind of mirrors They don’t make anymore The totems shift with each night The vertebrate spin in the wind as they clang and chime Singing the day’s refrain Whispering all kinds of shit In the ancient language Of lumbar pain My spine’s a fishing pole My line is caught On some sunken piece of brickwork Not that swimming silver sword That I was born for Maybe I wasn’t born for anything at all And as the current drifts Softly links my arm and pulls me with it Gently like a friend in turmoil Panicking in the street Guiding me from phantoms that only I can see But they have me.
Quit Vision 