Tomorrows Maybe

Blood At The FairgroundIt’s like I expected it to be

Instant replay of Fun Boy Three

Chinese takeaway in the microwave

Everything in its right place

objects sometimes jump out at me

like mental play doh extruded through a hole

star shaped, and whole.

What is it and how exactly it came to be

is a story cloaked in dreams and half-truths

of realisation of dreams and of paths walked

or ran down, screaming half naked, with

blood dripping down my face.

Also of patience and grace, bestowed on me.

I saw a painting of a girl on a woodland path

and something told me that would never be me

and I became sad for the days of free imagination

fantasies took from page to being acted out in reality.

Am I  a man now I have solved a 500 piece jigsaw? Aspirations

made real, straight and narrow exciting and pleasing.

Or is it poetry and the connections made between

people and places and words on a screen.

Or is merely having the dream?

And not rejecting it as fools gold, something to be scared of

changing your future, ignoring destiny, progress and chance

and focusing on a distant place so close you can touch it

but at first out of place in a world of wisdom and order.

Taking steps while holding the baby of your tomorrows maybe.

 

 

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