The Writers Voice
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shadows flit, charge and retreat
As I meet
Challenges, threats. Probing for deep answers
To shallow questions.
Offensive rap, fades into needle oblivion
And the shadows take form.
Spinning out of control
On a barstool, too fast
To take my drink, too fast to think.
Shadow strangers laughing, whispering, arguing,
Ignoring my incredible endeavours.
Rap zaps through rainbow fog,
Smacks my head
Smacks my life sideways.
Briefly answers are there for the grasp,
But now they skitter through the door.
Neon exit, into the dark cold,
Lost on the plains of existence.
Suddenly feel old
Sliding down the rusty greaseless pole.
Spinning no more, throbbing, sore
And so lonesome in this shadow crowd.
I bend and duck and weave and dive to exit,
Chasing the answers
Into the cold night air.
Too much, afraid, of dark
And sickly light of the full Moon.
Answers cannot always hide
And I didn't, (don't), want to find them.
I slept in the garbage, to a lullaby
Of dulled rap and shadow noises.
Wanting no more,
My search was over
And it hadn't even begun.
When I awoke,
It was a new day,
I was the same man
Under a different Sun.
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