taking the thespian’s michael
eyes on the other side of my being
seeing what is behind me and all
that made my world in front of his
the thespian with the apostle’s name
it follows does it not that frown
is half smile half fear of the wraith
that in my wake his mind has trod
a boy’s pretence and yet in this man
has age grown aged before its time
a hair trigger away from an uproarious laugh
of all the bloody poets of his land
that laid everyone of us to tears of joy
even at deaths black painted rocks
well i don’t know do i
he’s the actor boy
and it is not i wot wrote his lines
other than to feel what he sees through me
around me his hands a bear’s embrace
and turning paths me over the hills
and down the vales his wales
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