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.