I’ve crossed oceans of time to arrive
at this point, journeyed across a pacific to this place, of now.
The tired heavy now, that greets me,
nostalgic and whisky warm.
But not without a sense of the never
ending doom, of lives lived.
Miles has blown these sounds for as
long as the sounds existed.
Now that’s creation I tell this attic
room
that must by now have a discerning
spirit , and be bored.
Walls as they are adorned and colourful,
and undermined by their architect, Stand accusing.
A table of useless papers .
Nonsense, like the incomprehensible
scattered stones
and other tired trinkets.
I can’t read these dam lines anyway!
I have let my herbal tea go cold.
Why cry into this faded scrawl.
Why, for what, do I write at all?
Waiting, I am an edge.
My seat lying dormant on the floor.
Waiting a top this ledge.
Trembling into the summer, I don’t
listen anymore.
I notice the faint decrepit smells of
this place.
And the piano undulates above the sobs
of the wind.
But I am not sad, no. Only waiting.
