Author Information
A Connoisseur of Super Strength
Like mold on an old wall or leaves trodden deep into the pavement
He's a ghost that hasn't died yet
He's a man waiting to be born
A burn down the throat for some much needed blindness
He doesn't have to see the world he lives in
And the numbness makes the rain feel like a warm bath
Trees in the graveyard can be good friends at times
Something to keep dry under
Something to sleep under
Something to hide from them under...
From others who have lived too long like him
And from the tremors that chase him on dry days
Does he wonder
What life would be like without a ball and chain in his grasp?
A sweet poison
An imported poison
Written in another language, yet he doesn't even know his own
Mornings melt into afternoons
And red skies bring funny moods
He remembers them and thinks back to an ignorant child, running home
Has he wasted his life or has he willingly thrown it away?
Like the cigarette ends and dregs in cans that lighten up his darkening, numbered days
He recognises the names on the headstones
He half sings a song about a cemetery from his youth
He sips
He knows where he wants to be buried
Under the trees
In the leaves
And on a funny, red afternoon.
