Gestation of me, an old flame

gestation
It’s gestated for forty years,
Pregnant with the seed of dissonance,
Only to give birth to a stillborn idea,
My search, it was always inside, always near.
-W.E.

Amnesia has become the drug of choice,
For a society high on the elixir of forgetfulness,
Removed from the responsibility of remembrance,
Stoned off their face with the inhalation of micro swiping their life away.
Swipe, click, double tap, pop, fizz, inject….aaahhh
There it is, the high of nothingness, an artificial something-ness.
When on the downer, you realise there you are, all alone,
Given up your insides for display to the world,
On the platform that does not socialise you,
But ostracises you,
From yourself.
Like a troubadour searching for a set of eyes,
Armed with his guitar, city, to city
Country to country,
Sea over sea,
Who is going to hear his magic riff,
The waves of who he is,
Keep drowning him,
Beneath what was always there at home.
The spiritual home.
In the murky sinews and swamp pit of his soul,
The eyes he wanted were right there,
Staring back at him.
He becomes the Troubadour as a self-fulfilling prophecy,
Because he forgot,
He chose to forget,
When society kept screaming, kept belting,
‘Find yourself’,
Like we’re some drunken, lost heathens sitting at a tavern.
He chose not to look back at the origin,
The history of who he is, of who we are.
That flame? Extinguished, I can’t remember it’s warmth,
I’m already ash, and the winds have scattered me about.
-W.E.

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