Small town blues...

Deus Ex Machina

It is no secret that I've been feeling rootless. Here in my hometown I am transient, an unfamiliar, making the routine drive home through city dark and darkened sky. Perhaps this is the reason that I've thrown myself into work, to bind the hours of solitude to another name, endless shifts to shift the barren weight.

Take me from here, laurel years, when youth was still momentous.

One hour I watched from my tower perch. In every city, I've stood by the window pane; pain upon pane, time, that slow devil, takes me piece by piece, the shadowed man with the flapping skin, heavy boots and shining booze, to drown out dreams beside a flap-down toilet. I've watched it from every window, felt each emotion through the glass. In the end, I'm still alive, still confused; when cause has found me, will I know to stand?

Youth is wasted on the young, lizard baskers passing into sun.

How green the trees and nobody swinging. No carefree voice in this silent city. How was it said to me then: you can run out to the wild and new, greet every face with beaming bliss, but it's the same every which way; folks a' screaming and rockets kiss. Trouble a' brewing in the air. But was I a child of nature too, how green the trees I once swung. Was the world ever pure?

Rain to rain, to sow the hills an envious shade. The drowning torrent watered me wise to love this life. It is no secret that I've lost my muse; see these sad words I still abuse. But purpose comes without repose. Ah, the visions that I will have; break a way into sun, 'till waxen wings sing me undone.

Wish me a voice, a stronger pen to pen away the candy coats; the things we buy to hide from truth, veils over suffering and the nude; my face, grim and sodden, our wilted peace. Wish me a heart, a stronger beat to beat a tune; when the world's to end, at least I had you.

So the setting sun begins to mold, my youth was wasted when I was young, dive-in bars and raucous fun. Now pitter patter of the feet. I must have been a bad man then, to return now in bruised defeat. Starved and bound, a hungry ghost.

Words by Charlie fan
Read 749 times
Written on 2006-03-21 at 20:51

Tags Youth  Hometown  Bruised 

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EmelÚn The PoetBay support member heart!
Bertolt Brecht was there too I believe .
Images given here pass before me _ like a glorious nature-sight seen from a train window . The rhythm of it fast _ and the images photographed by the mind as they flow _ and flow
by .
Great write . Painfully familiar the after-taste .