In rhymes of time …

She’d always complied,

and without knowing it felt tied.

Bonded like a super-glue,

not a super-hero;

not even to the left – nor even to the

right – of a zero.

Just a zero.


But they’d loved her for this:

precisely this!

They loved her for not being

the being that



inside she actually was.

Though had never been able

to give a serious

life about:

a voodoo doll

without nurture;

a culture of natural decay.

A dismay of the many, and

a sadness of the more.


One score years

remained her: and then she

would absent herself from the rock

on which she stood

so timorously;

a rock of lonely bait.

And tending as she did

to propagate the bad,

she felt now unable to love a single

soul around her:

their goal had in fact been achieved;

they had relieved her of all

ability to

crassly cohere

the lost and where and there and so

which their sociality

had driven her to.


And so finally, alone and content,

but without ambition

and without


she sensed neither the heights

nor the mays

that might have given her a special

sense of living:

of believing that something better

was there

to step up

to and shift up

to and ride up

to and move up



And that – exactly that

was exactly what he was unable

to fathom:

was he really responsible for the

damaged heart

she held so close to herself now?

Or had she made it so hard

and cold

and untold –

and even

sold – all by her



In the event of the latter,

he wondered quite seriously whether

he had

any right

any more

to live.


And having weathered the erosion

of human contact,

as they had,

if it wasn’t now time for him to accept

his role in the matter:

for in his desire to be himself

there was no clear-cut position

which would allow himself to position

his seeing and doing and being

and life

outside the strife

it had all become.


In the rhymes of time

that have dogged his humanity,

maybe it’s just plain gone past

the sell-by date of his



The pain his change inflicts

on family

is justified by nothing

he now can see.


And his own selfsame happiness

is such a small token

in the grand scheme of things,

that no way out

of this terrible bout

remains honestly and honourably

within his grasp.


Lasted and beaten,

it is time he takes stock.

Authenticity was the goal,

but eccentricity

has become the rock which

his hard place of persistence

has ended up overcoming

the small


he once apprehended and understood:

a thriving he had so desired and once

could have enjoyed,

but now is buoyed by nothing frankly




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