Witsec
Hailstones ricochet off a steel cellar door
As storm clouds charge like winged hussars
Across the raging sky.
I’m sheltering somewhere far from Kansas,
Memorizing my witness protection profile
And getting acquainted with the honesty of solitude.
I’m contemplating the mystery of consciousness
While ruminating the passage of time.
I explore the big empty, every nerve cell inert.
If I had any feelings, they’d only be hurt.
Happy people piss me off
By flaunting what I haven’t got.
All my truth can be explained
By every teardrop ever rained
While sitting in the witness box.
Now, I’m a mystery contained within a riddle.
It’s the melancholy garlic of a saffron affair.
And if I come off hard around the edges,
It doesn’t mean I testified in vain.
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