At my age 30 and nine a star
appeared
on my horizon
with a human face
it looked just like me!
definitely
we
rhymed. And we danced
together at the village green where
prettified things were said
by the talking drums
at my rife age
of eight and 40, the talking
drums struggle with different tunes
jarring to the soul
the star has darkened
besmirched by lies foretold, told, retold
the side of its mouth broken
like some outdated record
face wizened albeit decorous
no longer human or humane
but monstrous
like Medusa
it can’t look like me!
yet on my tired horizon
again
a new dawn is blazing
(of light or raging inferno?)
yolky, leeringly promising
beckoning…
like a paedophile luring
the sub-teen
reassuring me
that things will now be ok
vowing to look just like me
should I bolt from
Medusa
or cling to hope as I did
eight agonising seasons ago
that my drink is here at last
and be petrified finally
for ever and ever
lost
unsaved?
