That pesky war wound wouldn’t let me rest
Just had to go back and unpick those golden threads
Threads that had bound me
Threads that bound a rejected gift
Reasons why... still remain a mystery ...left unsaid

Nothing more for it
Got to cut off the source
Gonna need a really sharp Swiss Army knife 
or somert-like for this kind of job

Stop the ticking
Dismantle the bomb
It’s a delicate procedure
...got to be extremely careful with visionary kinda stuff
But somebody’s got to take the scalpers initiative on
and separate that which ...now ...cannot be worn

Strange things - war wounds
They nag at you ...month after year
Got to go back and unpick those golden threads
Cut em off - one by one - once and for all
Each one a prayer reversed <
Cut em off for - good
Cut em off for peace - to re- enter the spirit and soul
Release the feathers
Let them fly  ...from their earthly tethering
Leave the green grass to grow
..as tall as it likes

       /////////
  
Our gathering drum ---
 lays eerily silent today
sitting on the back seat of the car 
 jostled by the bumpy road
Maybe it’s waiting to be regathered ..once again
By those who know ..it’s heartbeat call
Who knows ..becomes an evaporating thought
As the three of us drive in the opposite direction
 ...far, far away into the wild West North

After many twists and calendar turns
I catch a glimpse of something flashing
 in the rear view mirror
Its a dying sparkle
a tiny breath
given off by a raggedy “health and safety” sign
flapping about in a distant wind
It creaks, it moans, it snorts out of tune
Warning potential interlopers
like some bygone institutional edict
bellowed into deaf ears

“Dancing on the green grass is strictly forbodden”

I shake my head
 as if to empty it of stale dust
All the while ...my grey matter wonders
 trying to find the tail..tale
Its their loss . ..not mine 

But really ...none of us are winners
cause the house rules ... still apply

Got to keep my eyes on tHis road
Let loving deeds be the quest for gold
For givers and receivers of the glittering antidote
words are dead until they get spoke
SQUELCH!!!
It"s a wet sound
akin to the twinkle of a rubbery cats eye
Rrrrrrrrrr..uubbbbbbba...Uubbbbba
the line falls dead as if to wave and say
a last goodbye
Time to journey once again 
journey, journey...on....Memory ...shred


Breakspear  August 30th 2019/20