i once thought that if i listened to a song enough times,
then perhaps i would become like that song,
one with that song,
and i wouldn’t have to worry about identity anymore,
because it would be solidified in the gelatin of harmony
running from the scene of a place with no crime
in borrowed shoes with holes that have no meaning,
with small cuts all across my hand from unknown sources, unknown forces,
converging all at once and without warning,
the music stops,
there are no more chairs
caught up in musical chairs played with toy soldiers
shooting arrows straight at my face,
blinding my sight, feeling as if this won’t end well,
because it never does, unless I put some
responsible stop loss in place
to ensure the pain will never be as severe as that time,
you know the one,
at least I think so…
come to think of it, I’ve seemed to have forgotten,
how embarrassing, please no, continue
with the battle,
cry, battles fought for keeps in abandoned fortresses to save
an uncaring princess
from an apathetic villain
made to look a lot scarier than they are,
they will,
suffering at the leisure of being the last one to a chair
when the music stops
Fred Aiken Writing 