Strung

In my travels I sought not the greener pastures but those of gold,

Eventually losing sight of where I called home, I roamed and roamed,

As my backseat passenger and her words of misdirection,

Turned the wheel in this world borne of anger and dejection,

My eyelids warned me, saying she was a little too heavy,

My shoulders bucked in complaint and my steps grew unsteady,

And I, just wasn’t ready, but soon and very soon, I’d have to be,

But for now I’d hold on to the hand that loosened its grip on me,

I prayed that my arms would somehow grow a little bit longer,

Wished, that my cries of desperation were that much stronger,

Than the wind swallowing the words I’d wanted to reach you,

But the stables were closed and so this beggar bid her adieu,

With tears full to the brim with salt and brewed with a dash of iron,

He tried to forget the shape of the shoulder he had once cried on,

And if he failed, which he did, he would then forget how to cry,

Then replace every last tear with a painfully empty smile,

In this he was successful, but perhaps a little too successful,

In ridding himself of the feelings he’d once thought so meaningful,

He was by no means happy, but in a very peaceful state,

When she waltzed in with a curtsy and an ‘it’s not too late’,

To take from him all that he had left and a little bit more,

And her fan, loyal as always, danced to the tune of her encore,

Or so he thought, but t’was her song that followed his dance,

For the lad had no arrears to the Piper, he’d paid in advance.

-Ian Makamara, ‘Strung’.

 

 

 

 

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