TEARS IN MY REAR VIEW MIRROR

TEARS IN MY REAR VIEW MIRROR

I can still hear the hint of a scream,
From a nightmare or a troubled dream.
I wear the years like a suit of tin,
Like the stiffness I'm encased in.
How can I state the obvious or put it any clearer?
I feel the icy breath of death, the tears in my rear view mirror.

My legs are stuck like stubborn mud,
It's either DNA or blood,
Of which I'm never certain.
A wiser man than me knows a thousand things,
The man behind the curtain.
Either God or the Wizard of Oz,
The ego or the id,
Perhaps one or the other 
Or some fearless sort of hybrid.
He knows these things,
As he pulls the strings,
And the ropes in utter consternation,
Choke the hapless circulation.

Still I go on merrily, the Grim Reaper none the nearer,
A piece of work I see him smirk,
Through the tears in my rear view mirror.
I know the pain of sadness well,
Depression I have felt its stain,
It bores its evil eyes right through me.
It penetrates like acid rain.

And the canopy that covers me,
Is riddled with the swill,
Of things I've never done in life
And things I never will;
Doing time that doesn't fit the crime,
Of wanting you ever nearer.
You come and in my heart your drum
Echoes ever clearer.

Always the safest driver,
I never struck you down, 
Though my conscience is an evil jester,
A strange demented clown.
I skate alone on this borderless rink,
Without the cloud of drug or drink,
In a maze of smoke and terrors.
Forever mindful of the past
And all its bittersweet errors.

Beware the strange enchanted fears,
That make you hostage to the years.
The broken down homely hag of a horse,
Who carries you forward on legs of remorse.
A regretful waterfall of ugly rhyme,
That strains to work its overtime.

I can still hear the hint of an accusation,
From the depths of an overworked heart,
So bitter and revolting I know not where to start.
I wear the years like the suit of tin,
That I've become encased in.
A metaphor for years I've lost,
Mindful of the early frost.
How can I state the obvious or make it any clearer,
i feel the icy breath of death, the tears in my rear view mirror.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note: I guess I was delusional to cut back on my depression meds. But I do like the poems that come like gifts from my depressive episodes!