there is a monk
his bed of rocks
i miss him
every time he talks

there is a monk
his box of oak
i've missed him
every time we spoke

there is a monk
his home of stone
i'll miss him
when i'm on my own

everything is poetry
if you fancy
calling it
that
simply because
ah
come on now
nothing ever rhymes

find yourself
failing to forgive your famous father
then find yourself
in future, in a funk, in fever
then find yourself
fearful, frail and flaking away
then find yourself
faking friends with those aware of their familiar grace
then, finally, find youself
forgetting

see yourself
singing, sung, strengthened and strung out
then see yourself
silencing your sorrow's sighing sirens
then see yourself
selling scalps for salt and silver,
then see yourself
sinking in your sister's salads, seeking some significance
then, suddenly, see yourself
satisfied

make your way, still undiscovered
nurse the innocent hereafter and
turn to me, not as a lover
as a friend