There will come a time

when this mind

stops

this brain rots

its thoughts wash out to sea

and that'll be me

gone

or moved on

it's in doubt

the jury's out.

And is there, then, a trial?

Ah, the Judge.

No more shadows or pathetic self-justification,

ultimate mirror, showing what was right,

blinding light

on my life, this dubious convoy of events,

what was shameful, what made sense,

what of love was born,

and so cannot die?

Love.

Am I loved?

Cared for, appreciated,

valued?

Do I belong?

Or matter?

And if not, what's the point,

it's all out of joint,

futile, vain,

no purpose, just pain,

plastic platitudes,

soluble solutions.

 

That's it.

Enough.

Finished farming my fears for phrases,

it's now on paper, vapour

forget it, get on and live.

When all is said and done

if this were an election,

it would be God

on a re-count.

Mercy!