Poetry



Tuesday, September 14th, 2010

 

Waiting for the Past
Dominic Rouse


I open my sewered mind unguardedly
And rats the size of childhood fears
Rummage through empty cupboards
Lined with the past's unhappy news.
Truth, that bastard of eternity,
Drips from a rusty hanger; mothballed,
Outmoded, death-trapped and creased,
Do-goodingly given to the needy.

Through the airless grill I can clearly see
The narrow path that leads to the summit,
Mist-hidden from the fading sun,
And lined with the crucified fools
Who have tempted me with rack and ruin
Wrapped prettily as fame and fortune.

Beware-signs seen too late, they hang
Pointing where I should not have gone.
Estate-agents still misleading me
With half-truths about the views
Though it pains them to speak.
Financial lizards, innumerate now
But for the hum of lap-top mendacity,
Omniscient softwares that promise
Evergreen lawns and perennial cruises
To half-employed, unwaged, losers
Fearing wheel-chaired hospice futures.

And I wonder if they too have
Planned for these chill autumnal years
Nailed now between their outstretched hands
With policies beyond redemption
Maturity dates long past and still
A guaranteed amount of inflation-proof hell.

But see in their fears they have not,
Hear in their screams the arrears
They have gorged from others' profits.
Unable to bear their failures
Which are by default my own
I turn my back on the mountain
That I must one day surely climb
And face the one-room hovel
That is my bitter past.

 

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