Aimsir Fháistineach
Ali Mary Cathy
The sky asks me,
Threatens with clouds,
Imagination is a wild thing
That can’t be cowed.
Identity is an Irishman,
Crises in remit.
A lack,
A cost,
A lived, lost and gone and worshipped,
Shipped off.
A new land called sobriety
A lonely place of cups and tea,
A sense of self,
A bottled bottler on the shelf,
Shelved.
A funeral for my past self.
Destructive Indecision,
Was my only mission.
I want to have a voice,
Not a scream, not a choice.
A freeing feeling,
A burdened burned and all my senses leaving.
I don’t want to die,
I must grow old and marry,
I must mirth with girth and Nollaig harder.
Mischief in my bones,
All the sacred growing pains and aches and groans,
Of a life that will not leave me.
I am found and I am me,
Endless, boneless, pleasure please.
It doesn’t stop,
Safe, secure, atop, aloft, adrift.
Sail away swift sailor ship.
Drip, drip, drip,
Down like rain,
Upon my pondered window pane.
I can’t afford this gaff,
Shudder, shudder,
Have a laugh.
It’s just a bit of craic you see,
Death, desire and landlord’s cream,
But underneath the floorboards creak,
Powerful screaming of the meek,
The weak, the world weary,
Destined to reclaim the setting sun,
Run. Run. Run.
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