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

To dance.

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

Does that

Takes her dreams away.

Infantilises her live-long day.

Kalash children