You can’t walk away from all that you are,

No matter how hard you may try,

You can lock away truth in an iron clad box,

But you must not admit to the lie.


Whatever you are and whatever the pain,

What is given is that you are bound,

And in truth we are melodies lost on the wind,

In the torture of discordant sound.


It’s better to face it to know what you are,

To accept you have limited space,

To understand reasons the others explain,

And to look for the hurt in their face.


If god has his purpose then why am I here,

It may seem I have wasted my life,

I have caused no great wonder and offered no joy,

I have levelled the highway to strife.


I haven’t built bridges when maybe I could,

I haven’t made pathways run straight,

The anointing and unction was taken by me,

With the shadows obscuring the hate.


Of course there were byways on which I could turn,

There were vistas where roads never bend,

There were life-changing moments I may have ignored,

There were hours of pleasure to spend.


I could live with regret or accept that life’s planned,

That some angel directs every move,

Like an old vinyl record, the needle once placed,

It will run to the end of the groove.


And while the bands playing ‘some symphony this’,

I must hold every note every blast,

For I’m not the conductor, I can’t see the score,

And this hymn is for certain my last.


I’m counting the orchestra fiddles to drums,

I am counting the audience too,

I am counting out tempo and feeling the beat,

While the fact is I’m counting on you.


For beyond the crescendo that heralds the end,

Will be silence, some quiet, the pause,

But then if my opus had merit at all,

Perhaps it might merit applause.



◄ Shattered Saturday

Dear Santa ►


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John Coopey

Thu 17th Oct 2013 22:17

The hand in the bucket of water, I'm afraid, Ian. To be remembered for a generation is perhaps all we can hope for.

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