The Last Poet

I lived on the corner of a bed,
And I talked with my eyes.
My mind was always too over-stimulated by shiny things,
To use real words.

My thoughts meandered from time, to place.
Restless like the wind inside a chimney breast.
I rarely saw them for myself,
And when I did, by chance,
They slithered wildly whilst slipping away again.
Tumbling blindly into the storm outside.

Sometimes I wondered about the nothing inside.
The nothing inside my mind.
My cranium had been split tomorrow, and filled full of air.
But tomorrow was never really there.

I never spoke much to anyone; I didn’t do that sort of thing.
If I’d had another name however, perhaps I would.
I used to sigh with impertinence at the people around me.
After all, even I can see.

Here I stand, foot in hand, in conversation with my door,
Not really right anymore.
But I could see,
I could see.
They’re just taller children, that’s all.
Some skip, some run, the taller ones walk and the smaller ones crawl.
They’re just tall children, that’s it after all.

I did meet someone once, a friend.
I thought it would be nice to have some company.
I thought we could have fantastic conversations.
We could watch out of the windows together, for the demons.
(After all, in the dribble of my day,
This was something to look forward to.)

I absolutely loved you, my friend.
I was absolutely sane.
I’m still not sure about the end.
I did warn you though,
I did say,
I always crash in the same car.