And there does come a point, he said, when you lose your groove to improve; you ignore the need to fight back; you lose track of almost everything you once did desire.
Nothing sired again.
An empty space of a man.
No encouragement left in the whirling swirled around.
No brownie marks (that should be points, he recognised, but points he’d already used above).
No golden stars.
No fars or nears.
No steers or wheels to steal a march.
Just loneliness and foolish acts that had served to fact his life.
And if he could, he’d end it all; but though passing right then to the other side might be the ball he’d awaited all this time, he thought by now the one thing he’d no longer do was leave behind him a coward’s legacy.
So all that was left was to watch her as spectator, as his partner ground him down like the coffee he used to love.
Only the real truth about her, he now admitted to himself, was that love had – long ago! – ended quite mad.
And whilst over the past year infatuation for another had truly, awfully dogged his inner soul, he knew he would die of a broken part – if somehow he didn’t recover the direction and control of the fate with which she had baited him, for such times and rhymes as these.
So help me, he said. Help me dear universe. Give me the key to my beautiful being free. Tell me there exists an alternative to my own cruelty. Tell me I might circle a squared whole in some way.
And tell me, tree, that Dublin wasn’t all grievous fallacy.
Tell me I wasn’t entirely bad.