Feverish dappled sunlight
streaks through the tunnel of my mind,
focused solely on its goal, and what it might find
buried deep within the recess of a faded, ancient process,
that old familial brain lapse
as i feel the clicking synapse
that forms the thoughts within my head.
Or so say the theories I have read.
So I sit, I wait, I wonder, watching
the world slide by, stare into the eternal
yonder, and realise I'm living a lie.
'Tis not the life I'd wished for, many moons ago;
No wife, no kids, no bills to pay,
nor nothing else to show
for these short few years my fuse has burned;
old age and regret are all I've earned.
When all is said and done, through battles lost and won,
there's little left to do, but pay off what is due.
With muscle soft and sinew flailing,
I feel my body aching, ailing,
and that which keeps my mind from failing
is the vision of a happy face, smiling
from some better place.
Some higher value there must be
in writing down all that we see,
and so we wander, seeking all,
until we learn of Kublai's fall,
and then Man's folly comes to roost,
wiping out our spark, our boost.
Creative edges, tho long blunted
by inaction,
strike one final, taut
reaction
to send synapses snapping,
and the 'modern poets' rapping.
Wading through this stagnant brine,
we search forlornly for lifelines,
until we are tossed a single rope
that we can cling to, and call
hope.
