These times of low
reception
Unnerving me somehow.
The frailest self-deception
Falls painful on the brow.
Piercing through the armour
Which never should allow,
A fear you may forget me
For now, and now, and now.
Atacama has a cactus
That thrives without the rain,
No wells or rivers feed it
Yet still it makes its gain.
Now with this veil upon me
And no way to explain,
My soul's an arid fragment
Becoming dust again.
The frailest self-deception
Falls painful on the brow.
Piercing through the armour
Which never should allow,
A fear you may forget me
For now, and now, and now.
Atacama has a cactus
That thrives without the rain,
No wells or rivers feed it
Yet still it makes its gain.
Now with this veil upon me
And no way to explain,
My soul's an arid fragment
Becoming dust again.
Copyright© Alan Gilbert 201
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