Cacophony is apt, because lordy
these noises are puncturing as if
a pair of woodpeckers have taken their
residence upon my shoulders,
I resemble a great country pirate
in fact and despite this,
despite these sounds that wobble
the needle past the thick red line,
I am content. Oh I am happy and
my cheeks blush with pride
and joy!

My friends have spoken and I
have listened, and we all know (me
and the shadow visage that lives within
these deep folded recesses)
I reach the rank of amateur
when it comes to self actualisation
and of course the acceptance.

I will do better. Not for them, even though
I would wish to continue to live
up to these kindest of words,
but for me. Not the me of now,
this early forties man set and stone,
but for the eleven year old, the one
without whom this journey would
have sputtered and stalled before
it was even a flash of thought
in that brain pan.

For him, locked away by circumstance,
by events and words, by myself succumbing
to the demons I should have admonished.
He surely has waited long enough
in his oubliette, his paragraphed prison
and I feel his yearning.