This other rhythm in my head disturbs my sense of time.
This reason I have found alone dictates too much the rhyme,
That seasons all my poetry and often gets the best of me
Where I have just the mystery to wait.
What folly I would conjure in my reverie,
To think I have a hand in my own destiny
Except I make a history for my memory
That’s filled with all the rage, my sense of late.
So pages build on ages made of action
When my spirit sought its reason in its traction
In its movement toward its only satisfaction;
What my death will prove as liar and a fake.
I am just a song to play when Life is restless
And in need of answers shouting out my name
So the bait that asks for mates and dates to master it
Will be seen as what was just the child’s game.