There may be no truth to it

After all, If I am not sober

Who am I to judge

Where is the wildness I felt at the start of life,

Whenever that was but was certainly not when I was born

I remember nothing from then

All I know could fit onto one of my pockets

If I were to pull it out

There would be a blaze of starlight

For just long enough to read the look in your eyes

Before I was left not knowing

Where to turn for answers

To any of the questions, I might choose to ask

Will the hole in my shoe

Leak into my soul

If I catch rainwater in my hat and carry it home

Will I see your reflection

Perhaps I could bathe in it

If I was to write something

People might want to read

Would that be a good use of my time,

There may be no truth in it

But is that always the arbiter of acceptance

If I was a gambler

Instead of a rambler, for want of

A place to call my own

Perhaps I would

Have sold the world before losing it

To the vagaries of probability

What did I do with the wildness in me

How did it catch hold in the first place

Was it before the bottom fell out of the cradle

Nobody is ever ready to fall on their face

Life is a raging fire

It is too easy to be caught up in the blaze

Love lies in the burning of the flame

A fatal attraction

So the rumour goes

We are drawn as moths

But what would life be if it were otherwise

Living can be just like suicide

Nothing is written in stone

Unless it is carved into the Rosetta

And nobody really knows

What came before the hieroglyphs,

In the context of sobriety

I think I have seen enough to know

There may be no truth in it

No truth in it at all.