A Map of Lawson Road

(the serpents tooth)

"How sharper than a serpents tooth it is too have an ungrateful child." Wm. Shakespeare 


For him, 
that skinny, nervous little man, 
the days sometimes passed by without being anything more than a memory.
Sometimes there were quiet days but these never lasted. 
Always, just around the corner were the obsessions waiting to climb back into his mind to remind him of the chains he bore. 
He was also aware of the ones who held the keys that could unlock all those chains.
(chains no one else could see.) 

Deathbed motorcade, 
psychiatric pallisade.

Racing mind, 
like trees swaying in the wind, 
moving by invisible hands, 
perfect for holding a noose.

All of this unwnated weight, 
constantly resisting fate. 

No one close to him understood how he felt all the time.
Not merely a matter of willpower or strength,
therapists couch,
secular confession, 
neurons firing and renting space in his memory.

All this tension, 
relieved by drugs and games of fantasy, 
drawn down daily, 
some kind of mental pension, 
never ending funds. 

For them, 
those three misfits, 
it was fantasy, 
that blurred, drug line made it real. 

Shattered group bonding, 
evil corresponding, 
reality lines blurred, 
group consent concurred. 

The crescendo of the game,
fractured bone, 
bleeding skin, 
deepest cuts, 
shattered bonds, 
evil corresponds.

There was, at some point, 
a twist in the fabric of time, 
leaving him puzzled and confused, 
abandoned boy, full of quiet rage, 
confused and locked out of their lives, 
someday they would care about what he thought, 
the message would be bloody. 

"Do you dear mother think that I am not angry?"

"Do you dear father think that I won't show you what I mean?" 

He seeks a pedestal, 
with statue eyes that look down on what he has conquered.
Becoming the sculpted hero, 
the one who conquered, 
so he could not disapoint them anymore. 

Then came that twist in the fabric of time, 
bloody hands and bleeding cuts. 
(he drew a map of Lawson Road.) 
Sending in someone to be powerful for him, 
twisting, full of despair and conspiracy.

Sleepless nights, 
constant push and pull. 

T.S. Deary