The Orchestrated Man

This form of thought wasn’t chosen by me,

My internal narrator enjoys poetry

More than I. I tire of these rhymes,

But the words don’t seem to stagger out of my mind

unless in pairs. Noah’s elephants holding trunks.

Self-aware. I speak in stories within stories.

Shedding light on past glories

masked by alliterative allegories.

My wisdom is garnered from memories,

perhaps that’s why

“I’m breaking up

 

With you”

Fast forward: Train platform, sounds blurred.

Toes folded over the ledge

like this dog-eared page edge.

‘Did he jump?’ You wonder.

Crowds gasp, on we plunder.

But back, back some time,

We’ll steer these train lines

Through the Misery Years

Onto Joy, via Fears.

And please

Stop

Rhyming.

 

We’re climbing now,

Through unstable fables.

Fiction hides the pain I’ve gained,

Mistakes I’ve made, truths mislaid.

I can sing my life in ciphers

But I can’t write the final chapters,

Or spit out the closing stanzas

Whilst fighting the urge to fall into

Cynicism, vague symbolism.

But these crumpled notes scrawl their way out of a violin’s interior,

With strings pulled taut

like a ventricular chamber choir’s.

Tell me,

how much longer can you listen

To a bow without resin

Drawing a single, solitary song

From the wooden frame of a man,

 

A boy, who once learnt to feel in rhymes

But never learnt how to

Stop.

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