Aren’t you the same one son who built cantankerous bouts of bow-legged fiction
Who shaped our dreams to soap our souls
To suit our meandering minds of many an unmade-up thing?
 
Sizably, sincerely, incandescently at that – perilously wonderful, dutifully extrapolating the inner sanctums of our bare naked sanity
Bandaging it miraculously back to belonging again… like you did, still do with yourself
 
Haven’t we then been unknowingly play-acting at being your mirror to imagine it all back upon
Surround sound kaleidoscopic to escape with something mysterious? This falsified reality
And is it seemingly perhaps why you can press yourself gently against, to abruptly caress albeit invitingly step
Inside of another person’s least favourite memory
Here sits a merely motherless girl – one of the world of too many to ever get to universally count themselves in
 
With a fistful of baby clothes, one which had to have mistaken itself for someone else
Yet this forever pink piece finger-paved and wrapped at the flick of her right wrist, endlessly enduring
Everything else feeling all kinds of wrong
 
Yet, still, she gathers herself to eagerly wonder, wander, at the very same dog-eared pages of swollen yesteryear wherein…
Your make-believe words were like dutiful dynamite
For their chosen worlds to eat her on up
 
A steely-faced visionary tale of complete contribution aside undeniable rhapsody – you sang it so softly
While she pressed its hearing-aid harrowingly against the thunderstorm of her beatback chest
 
Born to seed this thing
For it to take significant shape within the hard to reach parts of her hollow-acoustic heart
That shall not, can not, ever contend with fending for themselves any more than whenever her little blue-faced baby never could
 
Hold himself together all of those two hundred days ago
 
And pitted through these ill-equipped winter sprigs, she still wonders, still wanders, exponentially away from herself…
And with it, back to your dedicated page and a little bit furthermore towards
 
The summer of her solstice soul
Opening her eyes to finally, fully, realise
To mind her mind whilst she somehow manages to find
A way of remarkably, markedly, reimbursing the surface of your chosen thirst
 
It was never meant to be words, was it though? Built for better things indeed…
 
Yet there’s a world of stages setting themselves neatly out there and it feels rather miraculously real albeit beautifully wrought-iron and cast in shadow for now til then, attempting to strenuously catch at
 
The silkenly suggestive edges of your kind of kindly
Yes, these bleeding pages won’t contend with holding the scope of its tongue-tied goodness too long a time anymore
Born for this, even if you can not feel it, even so much as see it
Get ready to burn yourself blue, for that thunderstorm is a-coming and word has it, it looks kindly upon you