I long for kinder, wiser words
To fall from my paraplectic pen.
Metres laughing of myriad details
Rush past me blushed and meek.
To verses of daily life,
of husband and wife
I’m a stranger on the street.
A stranded stranger in this land
Of the nearly normal, and the
merely mortal mundane.
I cannot rhyme in lies
Of innocent charm
And no serious harm
And praise lost idyllic times.
My memories of monsters
in their random savagery
Of my heart’s dearest love
Come marching from my mind
And diaries of devils
And knowledge of evils
Those, those are my world and time
My words and I stand — I know — too sadly
Boring as hell behind our wall of song
We are transparent as glass
But far too unbrittle for breaking
While we wait with hope, for God, or worse
To break our sad resolve so we may become you
Or render us, so that we may not know.