|
So, driven to distraction |
|
By witless repartee |
|
And wittering conversation |
|
Of deep banality, |
|
Eventually |
|
He seeks out interaction, |
|
Fresh eccentricity, |
|
On closer observation |
|
Nothing's all that it seems to be, |
|
Nothing's more than it seems to be. |
|
He scattered himself all over the place |
|
While hiding behind closed doors |
|
And day by dull day fell more off the pace - |
|
A life suspended in live pause |
|
He gave of himself in fractional clues, |
|
Oblique synchronicities |
|
But nobody knows how alien he grew, |
|
How, drained away behind his open face, |
|
He'd lost his identity. |
|
Now nothing else is left behind, |
|
Just the fallen side of the sky, |
|
A thousand miles away from home |
|
I feel the cold ghost breath fly by |
|
Out of the dream. |
|
Now the image blurs |
|
Of how we seemed, |
|
Of what we were. |
