A turbulence of dalliance
Words we remember,
Echo in the brain,
Bouncing off the surfaces:
A few will remain.
Wind rises around the window pane,
Blowing a northerly gale,
A rain-splattered man, with a sorry, sorry tale,
Inhabits the soul beside me, half-way to hell.
His tale is built on lies, my friend,
Deceptions ripe and drear,
Tales we tell to children
When their eyes overflow with fear.
Tales cannot curry favour
Just tell us what we already know.
Tales to stroke our egos
At the centre of romance
Tales that lack the imaginative empathy
A la recherche du temps perdu
For those who live on tenterhooks
As they write their imaginary books.
My tale, contrary-wise, grows alive:
When each movement over paper, each note upon the score,
Delineated with hysterical panache,
Is just enough to floor the huge artistic egos.
That clumsily, childishly, clash:
Dislocated, muddled, absurd
Too much dalliance with the word
Takes her dreams away.
Infantilises her live-long day.