The Lost Hours

Hold the glass to your lips
Those red lips
As full as your dreams.
I know things begin to go bad when I start to apologise.
Happier still, I hold the phone still and track your life
Through old photos.
Dreams, nothing but dreams,
How will I eat?

The old cupboard sits empty; a dry wind comes through the window
It is an early memory. While the men are out working
And the old women have gone into the vegetable garden
I run down the grassy path, alone, holding a stick
I use as a gun
I see men coming out of the trees on both sides of me, and I shoot them dead,
I stop, and there is a snake, lying in the sun. It sits up when it sees me and smiles.

He came from the best schools; he had the most money; he was never alone.
I noticed him and watched, his family had more money than I had ever known.
He had the way of, without a word, making me feel worthless.
But compared to him I am.
I cannot even achieve the most basic of success
While he is invited to meet the team after the game.

What is the worth of one person compared to a God and a Goddess?
Maybe there is something, time will tell
No one can buy time; no one can bring back the lost hours.
I would rather walk than drive
but I won’t go to New York and have access to
the girls, the girls, the parties, the girls
A gypsy smiled at me and told me:
“This is not your life, maybe in the next one.”
She laid down the cards that showed the rat and the mountain.
But then she showed the anchor.
“Maybe, maybe not,” she said. “Why give up? You never know.”

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