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The Trouble With Templeton
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Soldiers
I've played with soldiers since I was young.
Seas of plastic, a father's love.
Crumpled napkins and cheap balloons,
that burst before the guests have had their food.
Comatose and so morose,
a pale and heaving mess.
Your cousin's sneeze, an orange breeze,
will sweep away the rest.
Repressed.
It's madness.
Held your sorrow in polished glass.
'Knowledge borrowed will never last'.
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Foolish shadow a leading man,
who shoves the words in just because he can.
Butter please. Increasingly,
I'm swallowing my voice.
Deeper still, a wish fulfilled,
and you without a choice.
Rejoice.
It's madness.
You won't stop telling me. You can't stop memory. Your voice is killing me. You don't make sense.
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