Rain

On a rainy Sunday.
Lying on my bed, the books of poets arrayed all around,
The writers of books and letters; the know-it-alls long dead and alive,
With something to say, some things to say.
Mythical, trav-lit, meditations on a tree: beehives of verse pendant.
Speak to me; speak of some truth to console my self-doubt.
My guitar propped beside speaks to me.
It mocks me. Its hour-glass figure-of-eight tells me how long ago it was.
I strung it along - along with a library of self-improvement.
The remove of time, I long since learnt to stop learning;
To dabble and dawdle and dwindle my outlook and interests.
A million un-read books, testament to futile investment in the mind and soul
I left behind in youth.
I lost my chance to redeem truth and beauty.

It rains steadily.
The ceiling fan oscillates with robot mechanicity,
Bathing me in damp air when I could be outside,
Cleansed in the wash from the grey-washed sky,
Awash in the present; desiring a fresh start.
I'm aghast at the little time I have left.
It drains away like the rain on the street outside. I lie.
This travesty of a life spent in pursuit of a dream,
This fools gold of a goal in life, this self-delusion, this lie.
What is it for? Nothing? There has to be something
Or nothing makes sense anymore.
I lie here and defy the odds and defy the gods.
Who makes and unmakes me, I sly-suggest
A motif to make me secure in my self belief.

No relief from the rain yet.
Perhaps it's an augury of untold wealth.
Of truth untold. Pluvius, pennies from heaven,
Pounds, shillings and pence for your thoughts.
Speak to me (desperate now) speak, dead poets.
For what does your wisdom count, now that you are dead?
Give me an excuse, a reasonable doubt, a season of hope, a supplied text that
I might redeem my past, find a future.

I seek solace in rain.
If it is not to be found in the here and now, I'll pencil in a date,
A now but not here: a week from today; a date
For the weak to awake and make this dream real, this reality a dream.
Castigate myself all I will: when I leave my bed, all will be mine.
I think it best to end on this moot point:
The rain has stopped and I've reached the bottom of the page.

10 November 2002

top
  ¶ 8:29 am