It is hard to face the horrors of now
while being forced to look back.
Instead of controlling anything
in this river, I am a rock:
soaking and steadfast,
eroding but not fast,
solid and frozen in shock.
Polly plants-and-paranoia, how does your garden grow?
With emergency vitamins, herbal good health
and filters and masks in a row.
My circle of safety has shrunk to a shelf.
Relied on by many, reliant on self,
Reactive to weather, to hormones, to vaccines,
to pressures unspoken behind the scenes.
My world, my adventures, my stagelife are lost.
No gigs, no cafes, no restaurants.
No galleries, theatres, cinemas, clubs.
No clubs.
No clubs.
No clubs.
Is this, mourning?
Has the waking world onward wound without me?
But I am busy, yet;
tell Charon I will not sail.
The undead play a part here, look around!
My loss is less than others.
Just more visible.
It always was inevitable, for
Wednesday's child is woeful.
And maybe there's a limit to what each of us can go through.
I mean, I lived a lot of life before
(not that you'd know, I'm a middle aged bore)
but for balance an audit has been called
and I'm found in deficit of 5 years of thrall.
So now I'm in life's debtors jail, paying back fun
and my sentence of solitude has barely begun.
No more collecting passport stamps
or memories of night skies in foreign lands.
I've never felt more gutter class in my life;
razor-tight tip toe on poverty's knife.
Gone, too, are dreams of me ever thriving.
I've accepted my fate as the barely-surviving
until circumstances and life stop scriving
me over there's no point in fighting it.
Forgotten. In this river of chaos I sit.
A rock.
