Sands of the Slipping Tides of Turmoil, 9 Days From Your 36th Birthday

Sands of the Slipping Tides of Turmoil, 9 Days From Your 36th Birthday



There is a surreal syndicate hot on my trail,
An inward-meditative surrogate who reads entrails,
They’ve got the scent,
Prepping the wet cement,
This ain’t your daddy’s
Black-ops government.
Shuffling back and fro like the wind on the sea,
I dig my way out while drinking the hemlock tea,
Sapping the strength I survive on the lam,
A man with a past that follows him, trapped
In my own memories of what never were, I am.

7 days over you is what the song says,
Yet it is 9 more days until
Your birthday, and
Once again I cannot be there.
Cut off at the heart, I mend myself with thread and
Scotch tape,
A patchwork man
Trying to avoid the darkest of snakes.

Still, I’d give it all up, if only you
Were meant to be the one,
Like I thought you were.
Gone, but never forgot.



July 26th, 2009