The Attic

It was a comfortable world
The table in that small attic
The old fountain pen and pad
My happy world of limerick.

His war, somehow my crusade
So read the king’s summon
In the name of God I marched
Got a shield, a shiny weapon.

Those I slayed in the day, the dead
Returned at night in my nightmares
Did nothing, said nothing, just stared
Couldn’t sleep once in so many years.

I earned my freedom, end of my war
Took a final look around while falling
Peace at last! And I had to travel far
Back to my attic, it has been calling.

Eyes

I can’t remember faces
And every time we met
Lost myself in those eyes
Perhaps to read you better
Or perhaps to remember
Afraid it would be our last.
Years pass, we meet again
Rushed on a call, not yours
To find you comfortably lain
All ready for the final course
Same old smile on your lips
And the eyes closed forever.

Stories

Tiring self-crusade
Against someone else
Under the skin
With a dreamy mind
Of an elusive child
All they say matters
None of it really does
Waiting to break free
Like buried history.
And did I ever tell you?
I have stories worth years
If only you had the time.
I know well it once went wrong
Started with the one boring
Kept repeating my favourites
They had all the I-s, not the us.
Blame it on my inexperience
Never told before, I speak less.