At best ten percent of what you pedal and purvey gets through to my oasis.
This oasis rich in colour, devoid of hydration, not enough to sustain life.
Try hard, so you will, to still spur a reaction.
The barriers have been erected for so long.
Foundations set upon happiness but all I recall is broken organs and tears.
My god you will attempt anything to gain victory.
Is this how it looks to you, my heart held high in a stainless steel trophy,
As my blood drips down the base and slowly down your forearms, staining your white shirt?
The warmth, quickly turning chilled as my brevity turns to ice.
You are a transient being, a wisp,
Yet you so are relentless in your need to add flavour.
Our palates differ, they’ve matured as we’ve drifted.
We have all but separated out our fibres and strands.
No malice is meant, if friendships could exist I would’ve offered this meal.
Please don’t create the platform in which I have cause to commence resentment.
I know the invitation of a warm fire will cease the frostbite.
This chilled tipped existence that is painful, yet still comforting.
Someone else has opened the door and the fire is inviting, the energy exciting.
How did we get to this stage of percentages and ratios,
Where I compare the times we’ve smiled against the times we’ve metaphorically spat?
Can we please stop the counting, the competition, the sliced flesh.
We need to preserve what we can collect, to measure, to value.
To not just assess our past as pitfalls, shafts and open cast mines.
Deep ridges left on the walls, from our desperate attempt to escape.
These grooves being the only thing we can remember, from a decade of searching.
It’s not representative of how I felt, but accurate in the tragedy as we depart facing forward, head down… walking away.
©PEDRO-BATPOET 2018
Pedro Batpoet 