His Story
And he wanders amid the ancient stones
Dragging thoughts of ages, all unknowns
From the first wondering at dawn
In contemplation of where life had gone.
Mickey, philosopher of my heart.
Mickey, the fabric has worn apart.
Thinking mad about his destiny
Mickey came to speak with me.
His eyes rolled like a dying fish
As he unveiled every secret, wish,
That for all his life he held tight,
To suffocate desire with all his might
Until this day, he knew he must
Confess himself or die or bust.
“There was a girl” he began to say
“As golden as a summer’s day,
With wreaths of beauty round her face
And not a mote of blemish on that place…”
And stopped his story in middle undone,
And I asked of him what was wrong
And absently he scratched his head
While I filled my mind with every dread,
But not a word came forth to clear
Those shadows, and I fear
Mickey’s story is buried far below
In a place where only demon’s go.