The Boy of Silence

The face behind the harlequins gaze hides the scars of yesterdays man. Born in an Attercliffe slum in the rags of fathers graft, with a pencil for a voice stolen from milk mans note. A boy in possession of an imagination and no future Who can still see a glimmer in the rust buried in the abandoned steel works, lost in council’s regeneration of a green field sites that now offers the quest for a four leaf clover. This gift can be a lonely thing in a world of regimented minds. Inspiration needs a partner for every word is a journey. Writing belongs to my addiction and my love for the glorious water of Scotland. For a single malt can make a man hear the ghosts from the past. The fear of being the scruffiest lad at school leaves a generals memory of war bullies and a pregnant girls shame. A school is a flag that I shall not pass for its contents means nothing to me. The wood that that lost its view to the Stalag of tomorrow’s drones Can only cry in silence. But I who was born in its shadow found solitude and my fortress Inside a tent of twigs in a cold uncaring world. My soul could never connect with the wage packet teachers who are as forgetful as me. The boy who found his dreams In the cover of the oak. Whose presence still remembers the torn book of Sassoon thrown into the brambles discarded, as the generation within it was. I am the voice whose audience was the wood and applause came from imagination, though the spirits of the past looked on. The immortality of silence is only a pretender. For it shouts within my soul of past memories, Of a ghost I do not know existing in the denial of god. A being that time cannot touch. And long after I am dead , the wind will carry this immortal feather and in its dance a ghost will be seen. Looking for a stolen pencil and a torn book that nobody reads.