I don’t want to sit here in the pub, whistling the same old song, just singing along.
I don’t want to stay in this frequency of the may, could, should, would, if only, hood.
Reminiscing of the old ways, the old days, the hey days,  however I played.
Wondering did I loose,?
Did I not choose?
Sitting here in the pub, knocking on the wood, is anybody here ? 
Does anybody see who, I might be?
Shaking the head of the already dead, because they never truly lived.
The ghost in the shell, who think they went to hell.
Your spirit you tethered,
to the soul, of the one on show, who you just won’t let go,
till the next time you enter, saying this time I’m clever, I’m better.
We’ll see what you be,
remembering its your choosing.
There’s no, really loosing.
Your spirits says, oh no, here we go.
Once again,
A mere moment, it takes to create, to sleep in the dream state.
The deeper the sleeper the denser, more solid it becomes, till forgetting, and belonging, and yearning and the turning, outside instead of inside first became the norm. 
The dream became the reel, sleeping and sleeping………
No consciousness there, no presence in the eyes, if you stare.

I’ll be waiting holding you still.
In your casket of the basket,of your making.
In that bed that has your head.

I’m still here…. 🤍💛🤍