You are barely sketched, like a catching shutter

A hesitant boy, a man bud

Afraid to blossom, huddled in front of the man you became

Pre-lined face, milky and indistinct like moon mist

Framed for future crimes

In pre-figured recognition, the prequel to me, a déjà view

Seeing what was to become of you

I am the dénoûment, the critical reveal

The given-away ending, the spoiled plot line,

The emotionally illiterate scarline that time didn’t heal

I am the hangpenny amusement machine with all the answers you didn’t ask

teetering on the edge of the questions.

The boy I was didn’t ask for the lies,

The almost dids and the nearly achieved.

You take in the sagging dreams and the could have beens

And the slot machine excuses for the false start CVs,

the blow-out TV dinner repeats and the crippled promises

and you begin to cry

As you watch the train-driving, Trigger-riding, Kryptonite hero

who could have roared through a Beano screech of a life

turn into me, a book at bedtime.

And through smeared vision you begin to understand

That destiny has come to visit today

And given the game away

That the man you will become

has not come to ask for much at all

except one thing.


Roy Stannard 27.10.12

3 thoughts on “Forgiveness

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