I’m so ashamed. But not of me. Only of the silent sleep, and trash task. Days of promise, now days of dust. The reason, a room. Full of yours, and yours. And powdered profiteers, dancing in the dark. To the sounds of silence.
Sometimes the mirror, reflects nothing. I can’t see myself. But words, thought, said and written. Make me human, with arms of steel. And as the samurai swords sleep. There is beauty still to face.
I dreamed I met William Osler last night alive as me and you. “I am bones clad in flesh”, he said, a plastic windpipe in accord. We talked of the death of medicine. And how masks are worn, and then become our face. A stethoscope around his neck, he told me too few are chained by ethos and morals. “What about you?” he asked. Before I could answer, a lady with a lamp appeared – a fire inside her. And everything was silent again. All beyond the call of duty, I thought.
To smell the sun, and feel the wind. That is something. Come on, sit down on my knees. I will tell you of seasons of discord. And how an island girl, and a poet, ran into the sea. Dropping onto the world. For a pleasure new.
The mirror I stare into, shows my lovers face. Her lips, her eyes. Coloured hues of red and gold. She calls me outside, the first morning touch. This is the loving season. And a sway to the truth.
A Wandering Poet 