Left to rot for my right to fly,
What happened to subtlety?
Suffering each day with a disease called life
Still, we all know its cure...
Still, we all know its cure...
My palliative escape is to the movies
And revel in another's anguish.
While the instruments of my fantasised success collect dust.
Uncut tension bounces from the walls
Followed by a bewildered fixed stare.
Have I? Can I? Will I find heaven?
In my corner of the world,
When everyone’s a poet.
How far can I push my fingers into my ears
To ignore the wanton babble
Of priests, parliament and persecutors.
By Dr Samuel H Osborne
From the book: “The search for the plot of this bookand other stories”
By Dr Samuel H Osborne
From the book: “The search for the plot of this bookand other stories”