It happens when my mind’s off the leash and it’s free then to roam through the courtyards of Christmas and to hear as the winds moan my name in the calendar at the crossroads where they’ll bury my fame on a mountain of sawdust in a pickle jar.
and it’s in a pickle jar because it has to look real.
when the morning smiles wide on the inside and the outside is draped in wet skin
I trap myself in the delusions of thinking that one day
I still have to get all my why’s in
the way that you have to lie
to get by me
we’re all fucking stuck in this century
and there’s not many of us going
to get free
© 2017, John Smallshaw.