Leading from behind, from behind steel doors and locked minds,
from behind bars lined with cocktails and cricket jails.
Hiding under burning bushes and inside thorny patches,
many piercing eyes peer through clouds of hot ashes.
Thoughts meander like feathers or bubbles on the air.
Thunder heads, hideous and ponderous, their lightenings prepare.
Many spend their lives in safety and peace, without a care.
Not a single soldier has died during our immaculate war.
All this proves nothing under the midday glare.
The trick is to avoid the little biting men and keep your wits.
Sometimes it’s so hard to keep the disturbing dreams at bay.
Seven steps toward the barstool where my nemesis sits.
Glances across a chasm as the weary waitress moves away.
I’m like a ghost walking the streets having nothing to say.
I find it interesting we ask the same dumb questions every day.