I never had to face
the box tattooed on my arm,
and I know one too many
who did while people kept dancing.
But giving myself a try
means finding a ground floor
tattoo parlour, means flying
to my own Neverlands,
means words spilling from a fountain pen
instead of a keyboard.
And enlightenment was never
a one-off, but a lifetime
fraught between disdain and delight.
To give myself a try
means burning the bible
and spending a lifetime gluing ashes.
You know, for the amount that you’re paid,
you’re not very good at this.
I was never grateful for now,
and it’s harder with each passing season
to give little more than contented sound
amid ever reducing reason.
But I had my chance to see the stars,
had my time to lose myself,
had moments to see the reason for arts.
I lived beyond my bookshelf.
And, maybe, now a mile
is exactly what it is;
no longer just a while
to reconnect with bliss.
I regret the closing window of a future I won’t know,
but am grateful for the hours, afar and here at home.