Wednesday, August 03, 2011


Mull Over

"Delusion. I see. Sanity?", I asked Gordon.
A condition, I felt, under suspicion.
Flashes of irregular future me riding on,
mind harping on the tenacious gone-by second.

Soliloquy set in, unending conversations.
At a Bar was I, drinks to buy high.
Spoke and Saw twice over, bore a fevered condition.
Ho Santa! Gift me clear sense from that sleigh.

Hanging on weightless body, mind cracked.
Pieces of delusion again; Gordon help me!
Memory on me jig-sawed,
this Christmas bringing on me brain's enemy.

His chair rocked, flat I lay.
Happy memory, fake sense stay away,
his word's piercing the numbed mind.
Gordon's efforts, for my wish, so kind.
Nothing son. Nothing out there.
You master your mind, not your recall's tear.
Silent he kept, glanced and gone.
Stiff I sat, with body and thought.

Christmas ended. Gordon was he? 
Pondered I after he fulfilled my plea.
So I thought. Gordon was he?
Gordon. Dr. Gordon. He still is for my psyche.

No comments: