thieves steal hours from my days
each week another life-long hero dies,
wailing chords fade in the wind
the lash of minstrels’ tongues fall silent
painted canvases wear muslin thin
their creators now in caves,
the young have become my masters,
but in turn have become
slaves to their machine,
no need or respect for mentors
questions, answers, decisions, options
arrive on a fingerstroke,
I am dislocated, impatient
guiltily bathing in a false calm
Zen texts held to my breast
like a saviours’ scripture
upon which I must now rely
*
© Graham Sherwood 07/2020
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 