We deny righteousness
We evolve yet regress
We strive for openness
We organise the mess
God made him the wrong colour
In his transient years of innocence
Scented holy water extinguished
Remnants smoulder thick and sticky
Writing in Europe about Africa
Slouched over a Tesco Value notepad
Biro tapping on a metal counter
A punter said something about pot plants
One day he realised he hated himself
It took eight years to understand why
Seventeen more to decide what to do
And three decades before the suicide
I am suspended in that place
Between awake and asleep
Memories wistfully cascade
I am back to before we begin
With the attitude of a cavalier
Playing his well rehearsed role
He routinely wears a cloak and dagger
Deception burdens his soul