With beautiful curls of gold
A stubble that moulds you into an old mountain man
Or the lack of which turns you into a boy of innocent days
Where you hid among the bushes for hours
Then tried so hard, to still be found,
By being the perfect A, the non rebel, the good one.
No drugs. No tattoos.
But you still carry demons and scars
That you won’t let heal
That with 2 golden gramaphones
And a magical smile
You ignore and conceal.
Like the forests you wrote of, in the midst of a monsoon
As clear as the ice cold streams
That flow between surfaces of seemingly frigid-white.
You’ve fooled the world
What a great job you’ve done
You’ve even convinced yourself
That you can live without the sun.
I don’t need glasses
For I see you with what can’t be seen
And you know this can’t go on much longer
You’ll be back home soon, to what you know deep within is real.
-Ramona Arena 2016.