The Revolver
With a desk, a cluttered room
Through cracks in shutters I catch the moon
Whirl my tangible face once around the threshold
(Maybe my focus can be found).
What is this I grapple with?
Desire? Or hope?
Perhaps the thought that imprisoned I might choke,
That the dust I lick from a crevice or a floored shirt
Might poison this feeble mind beyond the brink.
Ahh tell me what this is!
By day I sleep till I hear the voices
Those impalpable whispers
Emerging like a wind from uncertain distances
What creature do they speak of?
I cannot appear
With fright I ponder
Would they shut as I bend an ear?
So longer I remain
Inside a clod of splintered fear
For could I spin the brutal revolver
And rasp down the side of a phone
"Hello, there's a caf? not far from here."
I?denote? I proclaim?
For I have picked a hundred reeds
And scratched a hundred incantations
I who stretched across the plain
With arid hopes and dried temptation.
I who scrawled upon your name
Recalculated recalculations
To count each card
To time the spin
To watch the table
And dwell on 'begin'
Even then I doubt
Doubt is like a father
You, who I dream of
I perceive voice and smile
But I doubt you should smile with me.
And in age I ponder on another thought
What would have happened?
What could I change?
Had I clung to some notable face
Drawn it as a mask for some loneliness,
Some shame;
To live long in dependence,
Empty hobbies and deafness?
To filter out from the last acquaintance of youth
And sit bitter at opposite ends?
With no quiver I think not to stir
To the infinite decision:
At what point is life not worth the effort
Of living?
I wrote this for a competition, then realising there was a limited on the lines, but I thought I'd upload it anyway, even if not entering the competition, didn't really want to shorten it. Would be typical me to write a poem for a competition before fully checking the requirements.
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