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Solemn as a raven
In the midst of such decay
I trawl your heart
For food for thought;
There is no simple way
When the trumpets are all playing
But the beat is far away

And now it’s raining acid
On your lawn
And on your song
Etching out your life
Marked by every storm
But that is what it’s like
When the beat is so forlorn

And you know where to run
When all your hangers-on
Are hanging up
And you feel your grip is loose
On the trigger of the gun
Though it doesn’t matter if you shoot
For the beat is never done

Our window on the world
Is shattered by such events
But music can’t be silenced
By Heaven’s whim
Or by accident;
Even into the final void
The beat will still be sent

Oh, but you’re busy with your life -
No time to take care
Or remember you’re impoverished
By your stealth
Upon the stair
Where the light is always burning
And the beat is worth the fare

So have your day in the sun
Take whatever you can claim
There are only one or two
Still with a welcome mat
And where the candle is still aflame
For all those who have forgotten
That the beat is still germane

greg

Greg, I get the feeling that someone very close to you has hurt you deeply. Or, on the other hand, you have quite an insight into the human condition, and the pain we can cause when we plough our own selfish field. We are all victims at one time or another, but also, we are all guilty of senseless acts of an equal weight. The more we understand the pain we've suffered, the more we must acknowledge the hurt we've caused. It's like ying and yang; for every action there is a reaction; and for every positive we see, there is a negative just waiting to bite us in the butt. Keep the poems coming. Regards, Byron.

I really appreciate your insightful response to Greg's poem here, Byron. No time to say anything more, but did want to say at least that much.

~Lizzytysh

"I trawl your heart" is an amazing image.

Thanks for the comments Byron, Lizzy and Vesuvius,

Writing for me is a search for a solution which would make redundant, the need to write at all. It is also a line walked between irony and synchronicity.

And sometimes in the walking, there is a

pratfall.

from the forward to my self-published collection (and I DO mean self-published - using Microsoft Publisher on my home computer ), "Pratfalls".