I wrote myself out of the dark
using buoyant words from my youth,
then simple sound of a dog bark
halting my lonely search for truth.
Sunshine in early October,
waiting for the brittle to fall;
time before Christmas spent sober;
undressing trees suddenly tall.
Your love remains well out of reach
- all the barriers we cannot see;
breakwaters on the tidal beach
try to stop the land breaking free.
It seemed much easier back then
to surf the vulgar flow of words;
kids poked fun at the smelly men
sleeping streets of the shitting birds.
Now our own teeth are falling out
and pages of the book are blurred;
inside, the silent scream and shout
as certain death is just deferred.
I walked myself out of the dark
- winter morning at last got light,
kept going beyond the prim park
- tousled wilderness just felt right.
York, click image to grow
