Here in this shell
I don’t hear the washy sounds
Of the sea
Whooshing all around me.
No mellifluous mermaid whispers
Drawing me into great depths.
I hear the fragility of my own soul.
It calls out its disbelief
In tomorrow’s sunshine.
It bemoans the point of another
Shallow drawn out breath.
In the repeated, random moments,
That spring sullen surprise,
Like a twin walking second,
It shrugs and gets it coat.
The new sounds are creaks,
The new tastes are bitter mould,
The new sights are crumbling relics.
The new girl’s from a rusty tin of the same manufacture.
Where’s the new wine,
Bottled for the this fourth decade?
Where’s the life you were told would be waiting for you now?
Under the newspaper clippings of
Your nearly moments.
It awaits you to pull out its cork and
Release its fresh bouquet.
You can be Schrödinger if you want.
You can sit and roll it in your hands and
Ponder two separate realities
Without experiencing either, or
You can drink the fucking thing and
Have something to smile about.
It’s your choice.