05-01-2014, 10:05 PM
I work here and I smile at you, or anyone that needs the cure.
Open the door, come blubbering, and I will share your pain.
Gush crazily around my ears -- you start off insecure --
but trust in me, I who am wise, will stop you going insane.
(I know, I know, of course, I know, and what do you believe?
How do you see this ending? How do you see reprieve?)
I work here; paid to listen to your pointless, pathomanic views.
We could just scream, together rage against unknown conjoining foes;
Here, lie down on my parquet floor, let others form long queues
whilst we find calm on smooth, cool wood; maple, walnut, rose.
(I know, I know, of course, I know, and what would make you smile?
If I could tell you life is good would you believe me...for a while?)
I work here but you think of me as someone special, friend for life;
who listens to you, nods, approves, agrees, permits and ratifies.
How fine this wood, yes, rose I think, but maple, too. You miss your wife?
How long ago? A year? Oh, two? We have our time, but we all die.
(I know, I know, of course I know. We each grieve on our own
and nothing I can say will make it easy when you live alone.)
I work here but sometimes it seems that this is where I should not be.
A thanks is all my life is worth and more than that I don’t deserve.
Ah, look, that swirling, smoky grain…a sure sign that a walnut tree
was sacrificed for parquet floor, and so in death a purpose serves.
(I know, I know, of course I know. Don’t tell me any more.
Come back next week and we’ll discuss. Just go, and close the door)
I work here but I need someone to talk me out of other’s ways.
I must write down my inner thoughts and try to make some sense of me.
This wood is cedar, how its scent reminds me of my schoolroom days;
the shavings in the sharpeners. I’ll buy more pencils. Not 2B.
tectak
1989 rehashed 2014
Open the door, come blubbering, and I will share your pain.
Gush crazily around my ears -- you start off insecure --
but trust in me, I who am wise, will stop you going insane.
(I know, I know, of course, I know, and what do you believe?
How do you see this ending? How do you see reprieve?)
I work here; paid to listen to your pointless, pathomanic views.
We could just scream, together rage against unknown conjoining foes;
Here, lie down on my parquet floor, let others form long queues
whilst we find calm on smooth, cool wood; maple, walnut, rose.
(I know, I know, of course, I know, and what would make you smile?
If I could tell you life is good would you believe me...for a while?)
I work here but you think of me as someone special, friend for life;
who listens to you, nods, approves, agrees, permits and ratifies.
How fine this wood, yes, rose I think, but maple, too. You miss your wife?
How long ago? A year? Oh, two? We have our time, but we all die.
(I know, I know, of course I know. We each grieve on our own
and nothing I can say will make it easy when you live alone.)
I work here but sometimes it seems that this is where I should not be.
A thanks is all my life is worth and more than that I don’t deserve.
Ah, look, that swirling, smoky grain…a sure sign that a walnut tree
was sacrificed for parquet floor, and so in death a purpose serves.
(I know, I know, of course I know. Don’t tell me any more.
Come back next week and we’ll discuss. Just go, and close the door)
I work here but I need someone to talk me out of other’s ways.
I must write down my inner thoughts and try to make some sense of me.
This wood is cedar, how its scent reminds me of my schoolroom days;
the shavings in the sharpeners. I’ll buy more pencils. Not 2B.
tectak
1989 rehashed 2014