The Tyranny Of Reason
Headache
no coffee yet
face shaved
but my soul is not yet saved.
The surreal sensation
of spinning out of control
the words slip though
my fingers like a lubricating oil.
The spell checker
blinking in outrage
while the text appears
almost magically on the page.
Where am I
let me check the map,
where am I
let me touch my face,
with pursed lips
I can’t seem
to find the place.
No dreams
a vision perhaps
as my mind sings along
am I here now
or all ready gone?
My muse sings to me from internet
and images of her fanny
are all I get.
Nothing to touch
nothing to feel
mirages
and nothing that is real.
Am I really here
if so for how long?
Should I pause
and write the words to the song?
My fingers stroke the keys
hesitating
some kind of tactile tease.
Hands to face
elbows down,
the screen reflects
my puzzled frown.
Echoes
from the past
swim past my
eyes and ears
all my joys
and all my fears.
The faces of those
long gone appear
and I never know why
to be remembered so long
after they died.
Why are your images in my head
when walking in the streets
or in my bed?
Am I now you,
are you now me?
Random segments of DNA
now on charts come into play
and all that went before
is still here today.
Heart failed in the back of a taxi.
What was the last thought?
His twisted dead face
is all we got.
Is he dead or only on hold?
His eyes are dilated
and his hands are cold.
All his good and bad
is gone
and only the winners
those writing history
will sing his song.
Its amazing where the mind will go
in our long journey to the river Styx
the boatman awaits there is no hurry
its all been fixed.
Life is a prison without cells or chains
if we can’t free your brains
from the season of despair
and from
the tyranny of reason.
no coffee yet
face shaved
but my soul is not yet saved.
The surreal sensation
of spinning out of control
the words slip though
my fingers like a lubricating oil.
The spell checker
blinking in outrage
while the text appears
almost magically on the page.
Where am I
let me check the map,
where am I
let me touch my face,
with pursed lips
I can’t seem
to find the place.
No dreams
a vision perhaps
as my mind sings along
am I here now
or all ready gone?
My muse sings to me from internet
and images of her fanny
are all I get.
Nothing to touch
nothing to feel
mirages
and nothing that is real.
Am I really here
if so for how long?
Should I pause
and write the words to the song?
My fingers stroke the keys
hesitating
some kind of tactile tease.
Hands to face
elbows down,
the screen reflects
my puzzled frown.
Echoes
from the past
swim past my
eyes and ears
all my joys
and all my fears.
The faces of those
long gone appear
and I never know why
to be remembered so long
after they died.
Why are your images in my head
when walking in the streets
or in my bed?
Am I now you,
are you now me?
Random segments of DNA
now on charts come into play
and all that went before
is still here today.
Heart failed in the back of a taxi.
What was the last thought?
His twisted dead face
is all we got.
Is he dead or only on hold?
His eyes are dilated
and his hands are cold.
All his good and bad
is gone
and only the winners
those writing history
will sing his song.
Its amazing where the mind will go
in our long journey to the river Styx
the boatman awaits there is no hurry
its all been fixed.
Life is a prison without cells or chains
if we can’t free your brains
from the season of despair
and from
the tyranny of reason.
©Copyright January 19, 2006 by John-Ward Leighton
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